


Everything, Act I

by FasterPuddyTat



Series: Gall, Vitriol, and Wine: An Incomplete History [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Custom Hawke (Dragon Age), Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, F/M, Friends to Lovers, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Non-Canon Relationship, Not Canon Compliant, Purple Hawke (Dragon Age), Rogue Hawke (Dragon Age), Slow Burn, Too Many OCs, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2020-12-07 14:47:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 100,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20977652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FasterPuddyTat/pseuds/FasterPuddyTat
Summary: The Seeker wants the whole truth. Unfortunately, she's interrogating a compulsive liar.Varric Tethras is the greatest bullshitter of his generation, but even the best has to be honest with himself. Sometimes.Chapters with smut will be marked with an asterisk. To read ast-yer own risk. These are the jokes, folks!





	1. An Ungentle Invitation

Varric brushed the guard’s touch from his shoulder. He tossed a sneer behind him as the door slammed shut and the bar slid home, the bar that was on the wrong side of the wall. He looked around the small chamber, meager compared to his rooms at the tavern, with a tall, narrow window that would allow a blade of sunlight in the earliest morning. That would be useful. A bowl had been set on a table near the small hearth, which crackled with an overly warm, overly cheerful fire. He picked up the spoon and a translucent skin pulled from the surface to drip ragged bits back into the tepid stew. He snorted in disgust, whatever hunger he’d worked up in the interrogation room thoroughly squashed.

He lifted himself onto the bed with a huff. Surely the Seeker knew she sought a dwarf. Did he give her enough credit to think this high, human bed was part of her plan? He shook his head. Why assign subtlety when good old-fashioned stupidity was on the table. He ran a hand over the bedding, standard linens, a tawny fur that had once been quite grand but was now moth eaten and shedding, and a single, well crushed pillow. 

He pulled off his boots and threw them at the door. The guard outside started, his noisy surprise muffled by the thick walls. Varric snickered. He swung his legs up to settle onto the pillow, arms tucked behind his head.

“So, Seeker, you want to know about Hawke,” he murmured. “Not only the juicy bits worth writing down, but everything in between?” He smiled, rueful, his thoughts straying to the very beginning. “No,” he said quietly. “I’ll give plenty, but everything? Pff. Not even Hawke knew…”

…

Not even Hawke knew that he’d followed her in the early, hungry months.

Not in person, as he did after introducing himself. No, his dock operative had tipped him off about the return of the Amells the day they made their case to the city guard. Old Kirkwall nobility washed in with the tide of desperate Fereldan refugees, and the younger generation of apparently sufficient skill to be sold to a mid-level mercenary outfit to pay their way? He had dashed off a reply before reading the rest of her report.

_Fall in with them. Bring them here._

He went downstairs to pass the note to a runner. The boy scampered off as he eased onto a bench and waved to Norah for a drink. He wanted to see this for himself, and he didn’t mind spending the rest of the day spinning tales for drunkards if that’s what it took. 

Several hours later, he had a decent audience of glassy eyed patrons between his seat and the door. A familiar tap on his shoulder told him it was time to wrap up. He set the untasted glass of red that was more vinegar than wine on the table, snapped his loose ends into a particularly nasty cliffhanger, and slipped away from the outrage. He joined his contact at the bar. She cut her eyes to three shabby figures sitting at a tucked away table opposite them. He paid for their drinks, then seeing the gaunt hollows of their cheeks, sent along three bowls of the tavern’s stew. 

Weak candlelight obscured their faces, so he read their bodies. The mother was clearly noble stock, despite the horrific state of her dress. Everything from the tilt of her jaw to the restrained sway at her hips had been honed to perfection in drawing rooms and society dances. Her long-haired daughter caught his eye next. She was cut from much the same cloth, frail but graceful, her gestures soft, her posture correctly feminine. One of the regulars crossed the room to them and Varric stiffened. The man leaned on their table, very much trespassing on this slice of peace Varric had carved for them with his time and money. He pushed off the bar, preparing either a jovial lie or a world of pain for this jackass.

Then he saw Hawke. 

She rose from behind the table like a switchblade, curved and sharp and deadly. Her shoulders slouched and her hip cocked with none of the ballroom refinement that marked the other two, but his practiced eye saw the tension in her body, strings taut and thrumming with menace. She turned to the intruder and Varric could just make out a predatory smile. He leaned back and settled in to watch the show.

The man had approached Sister Long Hair, cocky with drink and emboldened by their obvious poverty. Mother raised her imperious chin to him in a glare that would have singed his eyebrows off, if only her name meant a damn in this town. Little Sis, for he recognized a fellow younger sibling, refused to acknowledge him despite his hand on the back of her chair, looking to Big Sis instead. And Big Sis, oh boy. Big Sis looked like she had gone for the world of pain option since the day she was born. Looked like she enjoyed it. A shiver of… something, tickled down his spine.

_He rolled his eyes at the small room. Andraste’s ass, Tethras, even then? She was starving and deep in mourning, far from home and recently sold into servitude. He huffed at the low stone ceiling. Yes, even then. Does the fact that it took years for me to realize make it better? No you old fool, that only makes you a fool. He sighed and closed his eyes to lose himself in the memory once more._

Drunk and Stupid had finally noticed Big Sis, and Varric cursed the dull roar of the tavern that drowned out their exchange. He watched as she laughed, a big, full body bark of derision that spooked Stupid’s hand from her sister’s chair. He curled it into a sloppy fist, but before his sodden brain could connect his intent to strike with the necessary motor functions, he’d flown ass over teakettle into the wall behind them. Hawke brushed her sleeve and sat back down to her stew as Stupid crumpled into sweet slumber. Varric whistled a low note. He did not envy that man the headache he’d have on waking. 

He scribbled another quick note to the woman who was no longer a dock contact but a Hawke contact and retired to his chambers. He gave his desk a quick once over, tweaking a page, shuffling a note to its proper file. Bartrand was on his back again, something about one last job that would make them all impossibly rich. Varric rubbed his brow with a groan. He wrote that kind of drivel for his serials, and now his pain in the ass brother was bent on making it a reality. His hand stopped as he remembered the woman downstairs. Threads started coming together. He considered her history, an estate to be reclaimed, family to protect, no small amount of skill in the fine art of laying bastards out… he let his hand drop. She bore watching, no doubt. 

Varric was in an excellent place to watch.

…

A harsh knock broke him from his reverie. “It’s open,” he called. Sure he was locked in and held against his will, but at least his captors had the decency to knock. He huffed an angry, impotent laugh. Maker’s _balls_ when he got out of here…

“Oh,” the voice was soft and, surprised? “Messere Tethras, your stew has gone off.” He lifted his head. Where he’d expected six feet of armored Seeker, a young boy in servant clothing stood at his table. “Shall I get fresh?”

Varric raised a brow. “That was a strong knock for such little knuckles, kid.”

The boy shook his head. “That was the guard, messere.” He took the bowl of offensive stew and motioned to a large tankard of ale. “The Seeker said this was thanks for the information. She said, there was more for you so long as you had more for her.” He frowned. “But this meal… I’ll do better tomorrow messere, I promise.”

Varric shrugged. “I’ve had worse dungeon food. Just wasn’t hungry tonight.”

The boy’s eyes went wide. “No messere Tethras, you’re not… this isn’t… they told me you’re a guest, to be treated with hospitality!”

Varric laughed, tickled by the kid’s innocence. “Lock’s on the wrong side of the door for hospitality, little nipper. I won’t say no to a hot meal tomorrow, though, since it looks like I’ll be here anyway.” He dismissed the boy with a wave and settled back on the bed. “Thanks for the ale.”

The boy ducked in a shallow bow and slipped through the door. A gauntleted hand reached across the opening to slam it shut, and once again Varric was alone with his memories. He glanced at the tankard beading sweat near the fire, but a sick twist in his gut made him reconsider. He closed his eyes. The present was a steaming pile of nug shit, but what better time to relive the past?

…

The months passed. Varric’s many interests kept him too occupied to think much about the Hawke sisters, though occasional stories of ambushes thwarted, or rival gangs toppled, or rashes of muggings cleared by a pair of women did reach him through his network and the Hanged Man rumor mill. He extended the subtle invitation of ale and a warm meal a handful of times afterward, always through a long enough chain of coincidence to remain anonymous. He’d done it again that night, a year to the day from the first time he’d laid eyes on her. He wanted to see what she looked like as a free woman.

Hawke entered with her guard up, her mother and sister a half step behind. She’d grown wary of the Hanged Man after the first time, no doubt having done the math on each free lunch but not too proud to refuse them. They sat at their usual table, and by now the little family was well enough known that no one dared interrupt without an invitation. Varric took his drink and papers to the end of a long table nearer them, close enough to hear, far enough to seem unremarkable. 

“How do they always know, Beth? Every time!” Hawke, with that soft, musical voice utterly at odds with the rest of her. 

“Does it matter?” Bethany, the younger sister. “We’re out of Gamlen’s filthy, freezing hovel with cold ale and a warm meal. I say thank the Maker for small kindnesses and don’t look too hard at your bowl of… beige, this evening.”

Hawke tsked. “Someone’s watching us, Beth, and I don’t mean the gods fucking off in the sky.”

The mother hissed Hawke’s name. Varric couldn’t make it out, and neither had anyone he’d asked. Everyone but her mother just called her Hawke. Even in the contract she’d made with the Red Iron, she had simply signed “Hawke” in an elegant script that was sharp as she was. Varric ruffled his papers and tilted his ear back to them.

“What are we doing, Hawke?” Bethany again. “We’re free, sure, but without coin…”

“What is freedom anyway, sis? Looks like more feckin' chains from here. Meeran offered to keep us on the payroll—” someone grunted in disgust, “but right, I feel exactly that good about it. Aveline’s done alright, got that cushy gig with the guard. She might know of some off books line items we could scratch for her.”

“What about that dwarven expedition? I saw them again today, still hiring far as I could—”

“Absolutely not!” Mother. “Do you know what roams the Deep Roads? I will not lose another of my children to the blight!”

“Would you rather lose us to consumption and chilblains, mother? Or Beth to the Circle?” A spoon clinked hard on the edge of a bowl. “We need _coin._ Do you have some secreted away that we don’t know about?” Silence. “No? I’m shocked. This is my shocked face.” A sigh. “I’ll talk to Aveline tomorrow, see if she has any paying work. The dwarves are right next door. I can drop in, see if it’s worth our time.”

Varric suppressed a shiver. The long game he’d played with them was nearing an end. He turned his head, seeming to watch the door but studying them in his peripheral. Mother was angry. Her steel gray hair had been caught up in a bun several decades out of date and her dress was plain, hand stitched by the look of it. Bethany wore the same robes he’d first seen her in, though they were clean and slightly less rumpled today. Both had lost the frail, haunted look they’d arrived with in Kirkwall, which had made them attractive in the bland manner of most human nobles in Kirkwall.

He rubbed his shoulder, the twist just enough to see Hawke. She wore twin daggers at her back, their blades shining and clean despite numerous scratches on the flats. Her armor was likewise battered and lovingly cared for, every slice or tear mended with patches and thick waxed string, and the stiff leather gleamed in the candlelight. The ease with which she lounged at her table made him doubt the battlefield reports of her near legendary speed in a fight. She did not so much sit in the chair as drape herself over it, knees akimbo on the seat, one arm on the table, the other slung across the back. Her face was almost childlike, a sharp chin under full lips, a strong, straight nose, and deep green eyes that turned up at the corners below her arched brows, giving the impression she was laughing at a joke no one else had heard. Her skin was several shades darker than his, hinting at Rivaini ancestry somewhere down the line. She was…

_beautiful_

She was intense. Unlike the others, the hollows remained in her cheeks. Varric rolled his shoulder a few times to sell the gesture and turned back to his papers, but the words ran and danced before his eyes, cavorting in his distraction. He hummed and played at reading them anyway.

“Beth.” He heard a bowl scrape. “I can’t eat this.”

“Hawke.” Her sister’s tone was pure rebuke.

“What? It makes me all, itchy. Think I’m reacting to…” a pause, “what am I sensitive to again, mother?”

Mother huffed. “Authority?”

Varric choked. He turned the snitching laughter into a fit of coughing. Bless the Hanged Man, for no one took notice of a purpling dwarf dying from drink. He caught her reply between gasps.

“That’s it. They must have caught a feral templar for the stew this morning. It’s all yours, Beth. You’ll thank me later. Templar disagrees with me something awful, and Gamlen’s latrine is—”

“Hawke!” 

Huh. Even her mother called her Hawke sometimes. He drew a ragged breath and heard the bowl scrape again. He turned to see Bethany lance her sister with a worried look as she dipped her spoon into the stew. Hawke jabbed a crust of bread into the butter crock and chewed thoughtfully. Varric understood then, the sharpness of her bones, the dry skin at her knuckles. He’d heard the younger sister was an apostate but hadn’t considered until then what that meant for the little family. The magic would consume her from the inside out if she went too long without eating, and most mages turned to the demons when the pain became too great. He sighed. He knew a thing or two about the cost of protecting family. 

The Hawkes never tarried once their bowls had been licked clean, and indeed, their chairs soon scraped against the flagstones. He watched them leave over his papers, Hawke at point, the others that same half step behind. She gave the tavern a final, skeptical glance before hunching her shoulders against the wind. Varric turned back to his papers. He had some heavy duty scheming ahead, and his favorite place to scheme was amid of the light and life in the tavern. 

…

The hearth burned low and cold seeped in from the window. Fucking Kirkwall, fucking winter, fucking top floor servant's quarters. He slid down to feed the fire, watching sparks fly as he shifted new logs atop the old. Warmth bloomed in the air, suddenly too much for the small room. He shucked off his trousers and folded them, then set them near the window in hopes the sun would dispel whatever chill leeched in while he slept. He scooted back onto the bed and buried himself under the fur. He wouldn’t dream, so he closed his eyes and made himself remember.

…

The day dawned bright and cold, one of those early autumn mornings that would turn sweltering by mid-afternoon. Varric had tucked himself away in a corner overlooking the square, Bianca at his back and a mug of coffee by his side. The sisters Hawke rose early according to their watcher, but he rose earlier. Bartrand was yelling at someone, some hireling asking too many questions, a vendor who wouldn’t extent more credit, what did it matter. Bartrand was always yelling at someone; Varric was just glad it wasn’t him for a change. He sipped his coffee and watched the square.

A soft, lilting voice reached him under his older brother's braying. He turned to see both Hawkes coming up the stairs from Lowtown, but they weren’t alone. A young man with red hair tailed them, badly. Varric grunted. The women knew he was there, but they did a much better job hiding it as they crossed to the viscount’s keep. Red peeled off to slouch against a pillar when he saw their destination. Varric bit down on a smile. _Better luck next time, champ._ He sipped his swiftly cooling coffee and waited for them to return. 

When they did, Bartrand, nug humping fool that he was, turned them down flat. Varric groaned as he stood, shaking the pins and needles from his legs. He walked to his brother’s office and slammed his empty mug on the stone desk.

“Flaming nugshit, Varric! I’m working here.”

“Yeah? Keep going. Maybe you’ll find the entrance to the Deep Roads if you shove your head far enough up your ass. Do you have any idea who that was?”

“Who, the humans? The _Fereldans?_ We’re full up on filthy, neck-down hirelings. Get out.”

“Bartrand—”

“Out!”

Varric got out. He scanned the area for the sisters, spying them just in time to see Red jostle Hawke. Sloppy, amateur job. He almost felt bad for the kid but Andraste’s flaming pyre, he was glad it was just a pickpocket lucky enough to catch them so off guard. He ran through the columns, pulling Bianca from her harness as he sighted his target. Hawke was gaining on him with astonishing speed, and the kid panicked. Perfect. Time for some thrilling heroics. 

He caressed Bianca’s fine grained stock as she opened for him. “Sing for me, baby. Sing true,” he murmured.

Bianca never let him down. _Well, this Bianca didn’t._ She pinned the would-be thief to the wall. He holstered her and sauntered over. “I knew a guy once who could take every coin out of your pockets just by smiling at you,” he said, watching Red squirm with a mean satisfaction. “But you? You don’t have the style to work Hightown, let alone the Merchant’s Guild.” He held out his hand for the coin pouch. Red tossed it to him with a whimper. 

Varric’s chest twinged at how little coin it held as he pocketed it. Good old Kirkwall, the desperate stealing from the destitute. The ache boiled to a hard fury, not only at this stupid, hungry kid, but at… everything, really. He’d have to worry about everything later. Hawke was watching. “Might want to find yourself a new line of work,” he said, punctuating his sentence with a hard left hook before pulling the bolt from the wall. He turned to her and found he was dizzy, suddenly very aware of each step and the precarious balance that kept him from falling flat on his already broken nose. He took slow steps, hoping it came across as a confident swagger rather than a failing bid to stay upright. She watched him, wary, no flicker of recognition in her sharp green eyes. His chest puffed a bit at that and he relaxed into his usual place, the one with the upper hand. He tossed the coin pouch to her. She caught it without looking, pocketed it without weighing the contents. He had her full attention. Show time.

“How do you do?” he said in his best Rogue in Shining Armor voice. He spun the bolt in his fingers with an ease that spoke of several hundred bolts dropped in the comfortably distant past. “Varric Tethras, at your service.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, I am an absolute goblin for headcanon, stolen lines, and old fandoms. If something sounds familiar, it probably is. Many thanks to those who came before me; your shoulders are very comfortable.


	2. Fight Like a Girl

The sun on his shoulders soaked into his bones. Varric’s appetite had returned some time before waking, but the boy hadn’t. His stomach growled with every faint sound of boots passing in the hall. He took a deep breath and tilted his head back, letting the sun spill down his face and pool on his chest. It wasn’t quite a serving of Hanged mash, but it’d have to do for now. The Seeker would send for him eventually. Or she wouldn’t. Nah, she probably would. Soldiers like her believed in things like schedules and routines, unlike the subject of her current obsession…

…

Varric considered himself a rogue and a gentleman. He saw no reason one should preclude the other, but he did admit, privately, it was a combination that took a certain leap of faith to understand. Sometimes, that leap looked a bit like a push. He had Hawke pinned with the offer of a partnership in the expedition sure as Bianca had done for the pickpocket, but the look she gave him when he mentioned he stayed at the Hanged Man frosted the edges of his certainty. He’d win her over in time. After all, he was offering her the best damn collateral in all of Kirkwall: himself.

Her friend in the Guard did have an off books job for them. In the mountains. Hawke invited him along with a malevolent gleam in her eye, but Varric had years of winning at Wicked Grace under his belt. She wouldn’t get a rise out of him so easily.

A couple of hours later, his facade was threatening to crack. Epic poems could be written about the massive effort it took to keep his step light and his expression pleasantly neutral as they blighting climbed the blighted side of a blighted mountain. He bit tongue for the hundredth time as he slipped over loose scree, and tasted blood. He must have made some audible noise of disgust when he spat pink foam into the dust, because Hawke appeared at his side as if summoned. She offered her water skin. He tried to wave it off but she stepped in front of him and shoved it under his nose, forcing him to choose between stopping and walking face first into her breasts. He stopped _that time_ and willed a twinkle into his eye.

“Aw Hawke, you’re worried about me! I knew we’d be friends from the moment I laid eyes on you.”

Her lips twitched in an almost smile. “Is that so, serah? When was this moment, exactly?”

He opened the skin and took a leisurely drink as his mind played a furious game of truth-or-not-truth. Not-truth won, because of course it did. 

“Oh I heard plenty when Meeran started buying his boys rounds at the Hanged Man. Getting you into the city was the best coin that old nug licker ever spent, and he spent a lot of it on shitty ale once you were on his payroll. Figured I’d keep an eye out for someone of your description after you danced with the Lowtown Highboys, but hand on my heart, I never found you til you found us.”

She raised an eyebrow. “The Highboys… oh, the ones holed up near the foundry? Worked with that slaver outfit?” He nodded. “Yeah, messy job, that one. Shame about the leader. I hear gut wounds are a nasty way to go.” He returned her water. She took a swig as well before capping it, and that shiver tickled down his spine again. _Fuck’s sake, Tethras._ “Well, let’s not keep them waiting. It’s been too long since my last dance.”

Varric grinned at her back. For a woman who talked so much about dancing, she seemed far more interested in exploring every rise and gully of that Maker damned trail. She rarely found more than pennies and trash, but that did nothing to dim her zeal for digging into dusty chests and piles of bones. 

Hawke found the first group of bandits by walking right into their camp, intent on a particularly large and shiny chest. The men were just as surprised as she was, and even more so when she vanished before their eyes. Varric was several paces behind, a happy accident that left him a comfortable perch for justice dispersal. Bianca sang from her harness as he scanned the joined battle. Double blades sprouted from a merc’s chest when Hawke made her grand re-entry, and he died with surprise on his face. She kicked him off her daggers and slid one through the throat of another attacker who’d been a hair quicker on the uptake. He died looking a bit disappointed. 

Varric had spent the last several months dismissing the stories of her battle prowess as gross exaggeration and sour grapes. Confronted with reality, he understood that every single tale he’d heard was, if anything, an understatement. She flowed like water and licked like flame, and everywhere she went, a swath of blood and devastation followed. Their battle cries drew more bandits from over a hillock, so Varric scraped his jaw from the dirt and set Bianca to work, dropping lesser archers three at a time. He hummed to himself, the old song matched to her triplets that all rhymed with death.

Bethany leapt to a rise opposite him and called a firestorm around her sister. Hawke wove in and around the smoke and flames, slicing tendons to hinder and leaping to those who would flank her ranged allies. The guardswoman carried a heavy sword and a templar shield, half surrounded by enemies but managing them easily as he and Hawke picked them off. A puff of smoke in his peripheral alerted him to an assassin, and he shouted a watch. Hawke dispatched another grunt who’d been beating on the guard and vanished as well. Bethany pulled energy into a protective shield around her. Varric grunted. _Mages._

A whisper of steel opened his cheek. He tucked and rolled, fixing Bianca’s bayonet as he got some distance. The assassin took two steps and stuttered to a stop. A stream of red arced from her back to spatter on dirty leather armor. Hawke had run her through, faster than his eyes could follow. The assassin fell to her knees, her mouth working soundlessly. Hawke sauntered back and kicked her into the dust. 

“That’s for hurting my favorite dwarf,” she said. 

Varric snorted as he snapped dust from a kerchief. “Favorite already! You must not know many dwarves.” He pressed the cloth to his cheek. Andraste’s _tits,_ face wounds could bleed.

Hawke gave him a half smile. “It’s a small fellowship, but highly selective.”

He rolled his eyes. “Small. Dwarves. I’ll have you know that ‘small’ and ‘dwarven’ are not synonyms.”

She raised an eyebrow and quirked her lips in a decidedly… speculative look. Varric found his knees had gone a bit wavery. “That so?” The innuendo in her voice was smooth as honey and thick as velvet. “Care to, elaborate?”

Bethany tsked at her sister and took his face into her hands. Warm healing magic flowed through her fingertips, stanching the wound and knitting it closed. It tingled unpleasantly. “Ravish him in your mind later, Hawke. This path is crawling with people who have no issue with slicing unwitting wanderers to bits.”

Hawke whined. “But it’s been so long, Beth. I haven’t ravished anyone in over a year! What could I say? ‘My dilapidated, piss smelling, uncle-infested hovel or yours?’ That just doesn’t bring them running like it used to.” 

“Honestly, Hawke.” The guardswoman. She gave Hawke a matronly look. “Take a job in the guard and you’ll have coin to spare for the Blooming Rose.”

Bethany shook her head. “My sister prefers to hunt her prey, not have it bundled for coin at market.”

Varric grinned. “The Rose offers hunting packages, too. Let me know when you’re free, Hawke. I’ll get you a discount.”

Hawke laughed as she rifled the bodies for coin or useful gear. She tossed a sword to the guard, Aveline, who inspected it and found it wanting. Her templar shield was as scarred on the inner curve as the outer, resized to fit her smaller arm, the smithing job quick and cheap. There was a story there. He brushed dust from Bianca and clipped her back into the harness, her weight a welcome distraction from the sudden heat in his belly. Hawke approached the chest that had started it all. He started to offer his assistance, but she fell to one knee and popped the lock with ease. She tossed out a pair of gloves, pocketed a few coins, and inspected a stained bottle.

“Why are there so many dirty bottles in these chests?” she asked. 

“And why does every merchant buy them from us?” her sister continued.

“Waste not?” Varric offered. He was rewarded with a double Hawke eye roll. “There’s a glassworks just outside Kirkwall. Pays good coin for old glass, that’s why merchants all take the bottles. As for how they make it into locked chests? Your guess is good as mine.”

Hawke shrugged and tucked the loot into her worn pack. They set off again, hunting what remained of the would-be ambush. Varric noticed a certain wariness to her that hadn’t been there before, and they weren’t taken by surprise again. Hawke disarmed the simple traps when they found the final camp and took out three of the bandits before they knew they were under attack. Aveline roared a battle shout from the other side when they tried to rally, which threw whatever plan they’d had into disarray. Another assassin tried for Bethany. She froze him solid, and Bianca shattered the body into a dozen chunks of red and white and _red._ Varric swallowed the vomit that threatened to unman him. _Fucking mages._

Hawke and the leader tangled in a dance obscured by vanishing dust and sunlight on steel. He didn’t see her flash through her opponent again, the trick of her attack still too fast for his mind to follow. The leader buckled over, twisting in an attempt to answer her onslaught, but his blade hit armor with a dull thwap as she turned the edge aside. She spun her grip on the daggers as she spun on the ball of her foot, then slammed into his back with both blades and the full force of her strength. She jerked her weapons from him and stood, legs spread, knees loose. Her opponent crumpled forward into the dust. She brought her daggers down in a tight arc to shed blood from them, then knelt to wipe the gore on the dead man’s clothes. One of his daggers caught her eye. She picked it up, testing its weight and balance. She nodded and cleaned it off, replacing one of hers. She saw Varric watching her and tossed him a lazy salute.

“Good thing weapons don’t make the fighter. He’d have had me dead to rights with this beauty.” 

Varric held a hand out for it. She flipped it to him, watching. He caught it easily, and felt a distinct glow at her look of approval. He flipped it again. “Balance is alright. Blade’s a bit clumsy, look at the burr on the steel here. Hilt feels good in the hand, though, solid. Not bad for human work.” She punched his shoulder and took her dagger back. “Hey, hey. There’s no blade finer than dwarven make—” she gave him that look again, wary but _interested._ He quirked an eyebrow, “Stick with me, you’ll see what I mean.”

She tossed her new dagger from one hand to the other, noting the burr he’d pointed out before sheathing it with a flourish as she turned. The Fereldans spoke for a moment before looting the campsite, and when it had been picked clean they began the long trek back down the mountain. The sun hung low in the sky by the time they passed under the city wall, painting stones and chains alike with a warm amber light. They returned to the viscount’s keep, merry and optimistic. He hid his lack of surprise when the captain tore Aveline a new one. 

Good old Kirkwall. 

Hawke rudely broke him from the fantasy of a warm chunk of roast dripping over mashed potatoes that awaited him in the Hanged Man. All three pairs of Fereldan eyes were on him as they invited him along for a daring rescue. He held up his hands.

“You’ve made your case. Can’t have the street sweeps stumbling over old Donnelly—”

“Donnic!”

“…Donnic, in the morning. Always causes a ruckus.” He gave Bianca a quick once over and murmured an apology for her delayed cleaning before nodding to the women waiting on him. Kirkwall was dark when they left, and all the bad elements had come out to play. They cut through—

…

_BAM_

Varric cracked his eyes open. The sun had moved on and his chambers were dim once more, lit mostly from the low fire he’d refreshed hours ago. The heavy door creaked ajar to allow the servant boy to slip in with a steaming bowl of porridge and fruit and a… coffee service? Varric grunted. The Seeker’s signals were mixed as a Guild alliance, but damned if he didn’t intend to enjoy this lavish, if late, breakfast. 

“Compliments of the Seeker, Messere Tethras,” the boy said with a proud flourish. 

“Thanks, Nipper,” he said. 

“The Seeker will call on you within the hour, messere,” the boy told him.

Varric sighed. “I always leave my audience wanting more.”

“The Seeker says you’re a writer! Do you write stories about dragons?”

He laughed. “I do, kid. I do. Go on, let an old man eat in peace.”

The kid bowed again and took the tankard of last night’s flat ale with him. 

Varric inhaled the scent of sweet oats and warming spice, equal parts resentful of his traitorous body that would crave the offerings of his captors, and grateful that he was well enough to eat again. He shrugged at his ambivalence and broke his long fast. Keeping the Chantry off Hawke’s trail was hungry work, and he intended to lead them on a most merry chase.


	3. F A M Is for Family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting this chapter early. One of my favorite people had some Big Life happen over the weekend, so Lamb, this one's for you. 
> 
> Back to my regular Wednesdays next week!

It was good ale. Much as he hated to admit there was anything remotely redeeming about this entire… situation, the Seeker had requisitioned some mighty fine booze. He wiped the foam from his lip and held the tankard up to the light. One quarter down, three quarters to go. The Seeker had asked about their companions that day. Fenris. Anders. Merrill. It would take more than a single tankard to forget. 

He remembered instead.

…

“This feel fishy to you?” Hawke wiped blood and hair from her dagger. The ground was strewn with pieces of their latest assailants, a ragtag bunch of nobodies too stupid or too desperate to know better than start a fight they couldn’t win. 

Varric folded Bianca’s arms in with a satisfying snick. “Always someone trying to rule Kirktown’s nights. I imagine there’s coin for the person who takes them down.”

She hummed. “Or group of people. Might as well be us. We’re out here anyway.”

Sunshine reached for her sister’s bleeding arm. “Why are we _out here, anyway?_ It’s not safe.” Varric watched as healing magic sealed the wound with an orange glow. Hawke winced and shook it out when Betha—Sunshine, released her. “Who sent you that letter, Hawke?”

“Meeran.” Sunshine groaned. Hawke held up her hands. “He said the contact pays well, and since we’re scrabbling for every coin within reach…”

She sighed. “I understand, sis. I don’t like it, but I don’t have to.”

Hawke braced her sister’s shoulders with a grim smile, then turned to the door. “What do we think is in here?” 

Varric snorted. “Chickens on a spit and blueberry pie with cream, if I had my way.”

Sunshine lit up. “Oh oh, roast boar with a vegetable stew, and lemon cakes for after.”

Hawke tapped her chin. “Gamecock pie, wild mushroom bisque, tomato salad, and a mug of salted chocolate bigger than my head.”

Aveline rolled her eyes and broke down the door.

They came, they saw, they _kicked ass._ All for an empty chest. And when they tried to leave, well, the abbreviated version of Hawke & Co versus a shitload of surprise mercs is as follows:

“Who are you?” 

“Who are _you_?”

“You’re not the elf?”

“I’m, not an elf?”

“Kill them anyway!”

“Hawke, that’s an awful lot of—”

“I’m not an elf!”

And, bloodshed. 

And then… there was an elf. 

A lyrium-etched elf with a sword bigger than he was, a dour bearing, and the world’s biggest chip on his shoulder. Varric’s immediate dislike was nearly visceral, but he tamped it down. Fenris was a broody bastard, but it seemed like he was going to be their broody bastard. They followed him to a grand, decaying mansion, scoured it of shades and a few low level demons, and when the elf said he’d live there, they all… shrugged. A runaway Tevinter warrior slave with magical tattoos squatting in a derelict Hightown estate? Just another day in Kirkwall.

Varric walked the Hawkes back to their uncle’s home. Sunshine bent to gather him into a warm hug, Hawke gave him that sloppy salute and a half smile, and he left their front door with an unfamiliar warmth glowing in the vicinity of his lower ribcage. That night, and many others, he mistook it for weariness. He misunderstood it for months, but he did get the best sleep of his life.

…

His ale was gone. He leaned forward with a soft moan, belly sloshing with ale and stew, and set it down on the hearthside table. He added a new log to the fire and shed his trousers, folding and stowing them as he had the night before. He lifted himself onto the bed with a huff, still put out at the ridiculous heights where humans preferred to sleep. Hawke’s bed had been much more amenable, once she had one of her own. He smiled. That really should have been his first clue. He pulled the covers over his legs and folded the pillow at his lower back so he could see the hearth. He lost himself in the dancing flames.

…

“Worthless!” Bartrand threw the map across the room. “I swear if one more nug fucking mewler knocks at my door—”

“Now now, brother. Where did the big bad vellum hurt you?”

Bartrand scowled at his younger brother. Varric smiled back. “We are dead in our tracks without an entrance, baby brother. And what have you done to move us along?” Varric knew better than answer that. He hopped off his brother’s desk and made for the door, but he was stopped by a rough hand on his shoulder. “Where are you off to in such a hurry? Hanging around that human again?” Varric regarded him coolly. “Ha, thought so. Hoping she’ll take pity on you? Show you a bit of high rise trim?” 

He forced a laugh and removed his dear brother’s hand. “Nothing so untoward, brother, just keeping an eye on my investments. I have an ear to the ground for another map.” 

Varric escaped the stifling air of the family office. He turned his face to the sky, closed his eyes, and breathed deep. It was good to be a surface dwarf. Sun-touched they called him, as if that were an insult. His feet led him through Hightown to low, and through Lowtown to the Hanged Man. He chewed on the problem of the sisters Hawke as he went. Sunshine was going out less. For her protection, Hawke said, more drawn and tired than he’d ever seen her. The elf had joined them on the last few jobs, but their merry band of rogues felt unbalanced without Bethany flinging ice and fire at his side. Hawke’s focus had suffered as well, though whether it was from missing her sister or ogling the elf… he didn’t want to dwell. He pushed the heavy door open and stepped into the welcome tavern din.

Hawke greeted him at the bar, alone. She forced a smile through evident worry. He smiled back and placed a comforting arm around her waist. She jumped at the contact. He withdrew, realizing too late that he’d crossed a line unthinking. She shivered, from shock? Disgust? He couldn’t tell. He let the offending arm drop and gestured to his chambers with the other arm. Her brittle smile returned, and he followed her upstairs. She began pacing the moment he closed the door.

“They know something. I saw two of them just today, skulking around our corner. They’ve never come so close before… someone had to have tipped them off but we never leave survivors, Varric! We never leave…”

Varric held up his hands. She stopped talking. He let her pace a while longer, but her agitation was making him itchy.

“Okay, Hawke. What’s got you so spooked?”

That stopped her. “Templars!” she hissed. “Blighted templars, never seen them down here before but they’ve taken up residence just across the way from our _house_.”

He had no quarrel with the templars himself. “They’re bad news.” She looked at him like something she’d scraped from her shoe. Wrong answer, Varric. “But, what if I told you I have a lead on some crucial items for our little expedition? Items that would get you and your sister out of the city for several weeks?”

She took a deep breath as a shrewd look edged out her panicked one. “Items you need my help to procure?”

“Just so.”

She chewed her lip. “Where are these items?”

“Well, first we need to find a man. Fereldan, fell in with a group of well-positioned refugees. Walk with me?”

“Just us?”

“Is it safe for Sunshine to leave Gamlen’s place?” She shook her head. “Just us, then.” He turned to the door. A soft hand on his shoulder stopped him. 

“Thank you, Varric.”

The raw gratitude in her voice knotted his guts. He thanked Andraste, the Maker, and all the elvhen creators that she had a front row seat to the back of his head, because for one fleeting moment his face was a study in anguish. He dipped his chin in acknowledgment and they left his quarters.

Walking with her through Lowtown was strange without their usual entourage. She stopped at the potion maker, greeting the woman by name and congratulating her on her recent marriage. She declined to order any potions, however, and Varric made a note to come back when he was alone. They walked to the Fereldan shop.

Inside, the claustrophobic space teemed with every form of human misery and suffering. He coughed gently into his sleeve at the smell of unwashed bodies and unclean wounds. Hawke didn’t seem to notice. She went straight for the proprietress and asked how she could help. The woman took one look at Hawke and said they’d take coin if she could spare it. Varric swallowed a laugh. The shop owner wanted this walking cannonball out of her business at once, and he didn’t blame her at all. Hawke overstayed her welcome, cajoling the needed information from the woman with a light touch. They turned to leave, but she hesitated by the donation box. Varric was already half out the door, annoyed that she’d linger in that awful place. She knelt before the box, took out her coin purse, and dropped a thick golden sovereign in among the copper and silver. Varric shook his head. That one coin was a good sixth of everything she had to her name. She shoved the purse back into a pocket with a sniffle and left quickly, only to stop short as they rounded the next corner.

Varric cursed his hasty judgment as six shabby brawlers surrounded them, their faces masked and weapons brandished. Hawke lanced him with a withering glare as she dipped into her battle stance.

She muttered just loud enough to reach his ears. “Come with me for a nice walk around Lowtown, he says. It’ll be easy, he says. We don’t need any backup, he says, we’ll be fine, he says.”

Varric opened his mouth to reply, but the leader called out in a thick Fereldan accent. Ah, they’d hit a raw spot with their questions about the healer. Hawke stood and spread her hands in a neat switch from ruthless killer to serene diplomat. She soothed their worries with a much thickened Fereldan accent of her own and the refugee enforcers reeled, surprised to find one of their countrymen in sturdy Kirkwallan armor. They nodded to her with respect and left, and the whole scene did things to the fine hairs at the back of Varric’s neck that did not bear close scrutiny.

Hawke watched them go. “Hanged Man?” she asked.

“Hanged Man,” he answered.

“Buy me a round?”

He laughed. “Buy you two, and a meal.” He poked her side. “When was the last time you ate, Hawke?”

“You copped a feel back there, you tell me.” Wicked amusement sparkled in her eyes. Good. He didn’t like worried, frantic Hawke.

“Copped a— does a friendly pat on the back pass for molestation in Ferelden?” He pressed an open hand on his chest and caught a dark flicker in her eyes. Maybe… maybe she had shivered with neither shock, nor disgust. Interesting. “My intentions are honorable, messere. All my apologies for offending.”

She tilted her head to look down her nose at him. “Accepted, on one condition.”

“And that is?”

“Three rounds, the roast dinner, and a sweet mince pie.”

Varric laughed. “Hawke, you will eat me out of house and home.” She raised an eyebrow. “Fine, fine, but we share the pie.” 

She stuck out her hand, expecting a hearty shake. He took it as a gentleman, raised it to his lips, and pressed a warm, firm kiss to her cracked and calloused knuckles. He looked up in time to see her cheeks flush absolutely scarlet. She snatched her hand away and held it as if it burned. He hesitated, wondering yet again if he’d gone too far. He knew how cagey she was, so why in Andraste’s name would he test her like this? She saw him falter. He watched, passive, ready to accept any rebuke she might give, but her kissed hand merely dropped to his shoulder as she started for the tavern. He remembered how to breathe when she brushed by him and the tension between them released, easy as that. 

He sent word to Aveline and Bethany to meet them after dark, then slid onto the bench across the table from Hawke. She’d started without him and pressed a full tankard into his hand once he’d settled. 

“First one’s on me,” she said. “Thanks for…” she shifted, uncertain, “today.” It wasn’t what she wanted to say, but he let it go. 

“Sunshine and Aveline know to meet us here when they can,” he said. “Darktown’s crawling with Coterie, cutpurses, and who knows what else, so much as I enjoyed our romantic jaunt through the slums today, we’ll need friends to pay this Fereldan-Warden-healer-apostate mage a visit.” She had smirked when he called their afternoon ‘romantic,’ and he found himself smiling into his drink. Until he drank it, that is, and was abruptly reminded of why his general rule for drinking at the Hanged Man was don't.

The food came shortly after, and they began a merry war of who could tell the most outrageous histories for their fellow patrons. There was a group of shifty men tucked into a corner. She wove a delightful tale of subterfuge and deceit for them, centered on the secret location of a prize laying hen and her girlfriend, a wizened old nug. Varric pointed out a woman drinking alone at the bar. Her husband left her for a life at sea, he began, so the woman sold their house and bought her own ship. Her seven children made up her crew, and the small family terrorized merchant freighters, searching for their lost husband and father. To reunite with him? Hawke asked. Not at all, he replied, to flay him alive and sew his skin to their black sails. She liked that one. Her eyes flitted over the tavern before lighting on a well dressed couple necking in the darkest corner. She licked her lips. Varric found it suddenly difficult to breathe so he drank instead, bitter piss ale be damned. Edwina slammed a new tankard down in front of him with a malicious gleam in her eye.

“Star-crossed lovers,” she said, “meeting while he’s ‘at work’ so the wife doesn’t catch wise. They met in the Lowtown market, at her stall for love potions and good luck trinkets. He thinks she slipped him one, but her love potions never worked. Really,” her eyes gazed into his, picking his very soul like a lock. He gave her his best charming, evasive smile and turned to the couple, hoping to shift the charge between them to something more neutral. “Really, he fell for her fierce independence and sharp wit, so different from the soft, yielding graces of his lady wife.”

He shook his head. “This is a game of fiction, Hawke. Drawing from your own life is strictly forbidden.”

She squawked with indignation and slapped his shoulder. “As though I’d stoop to homewrecking, serah!” He winced. She saw. “Oh ho, the accuser stands accused! Spill, Tethras.”

His warm, open gaze slammed shut, a stone wall of ice rimed denial years in the making. He tried to soften the blow with a false smile, but she recoiled as if he’d been the one to slap her. “Sorry Hawke, game rules stand. No true stories.” He waited to see her reply.

She watched him, wanting to pry but understanding on a bone deep level that some truths were Off Limits. Slowly, she nodded, raising her tankard in a solemn toast. “No true stories,” she said. He clicked his tankard on hers and they drank to, what, burying the past? Guarding their mistakes? Her agreement felt worse than her accusal. He set his drink down and stared into the foamy head. She kicked him under the table. He looked up, bright anger nipping in the back of his mind. She beckoned him closer, across the table so she could whisper in his ear.

“Also, she fucked him with an ivory prick in a leather harness during their first tryst. He’d never come so hard in his life.”

Varric’s head met the table in a seizure of snorting, relieved laughter. Hawke snickered as she sat back, watching him like a cat in cream as he tried, failed, and tried again to get a Maker damned handle on himself. At last he slumped back onto the bench, gasping, teary eyed and grateful that this crazy, beautiful creature sitting across from him was his friend.

Friend.

Beautiful.

He sighed. Yes, his friend. He searched the bar and found another muse in the shape of a young, richly dressed man deep in his cups, and the game went on.

…

The small room hadn’t once reached a comfortable equilibrium since he’d arrived. Too hot, too cold, too dry, too damp. He shoved off the bed to feed the fire and braced himself for the incoming heatwave. It arrived worse than expected, and he fled to the tall window to escape the sudden warmth. Cold air and a clear view of Kirkwall greeted him. He glanced up, looking for what few constellations were visible in his little slice of sky. A piece of Voyager, a fragment of the Maiden. He leaned against the cold stone wall and let his mind wander.

…

The Fereldan Warden, Anders, had surprised him with his delicately handsome face and his little clinic, then bored him to death with a tit for tat price on his map of the Deep Roads. Hawke agreed to meet him in the Chantry to help free his friend, though a shared look between rogues spoke volumes on what they expected to find there. They arrived at the massive stone building after a minimum of late night street justice, only to find the Warden’s friend had already been made Tranquil and the whole thing was a trap. Hawke caught his eye as a small detachment of templars appeared, a resigned smirk that said _feckin knew it, hey?_ and Varric nodded back. The Warden surprised him again when he crackled into a blue, glowing abomination, but he had little time to react as they engaged the latest group of strangers who wanted them dead. Varric was not in the least mollified when the Fereldan-Warden-mage-healer-abomination explained his terribly complex situation back at his Darktown clinic, though he did appreciate Anders’ candor when he handed the maps over, saying he understood if they wanted nothing more to do with him.

Varric sure as shit didn’t.

Sunshine perked up when they left the clinic. She studied a decrepit cellar door closely, then dragged her sister over to check it as well. Hawke rolled her shoulder, clearly aching for a nightcap and a bed, (or perhaps he was projecting) but she wore the expression of an older sibling unable to say no to the baby of the family. Varric only knew that look from observation. Bartrand had been well able to deny his baby brother since time immemorial.

Hawke sighed. “Aveline, Varric. It would seem that my intrepid sibling has discovered our slave trader-ridden former family estate. I know it’s been… a very long night, but there’s a certain document in the family vault—”

Aveline stood at attention. “I’m right behind you, Hawke.”

Varric made a show of inspecting Bianca. “Won’t be the first sleepless night I’ve spent in the company of beautiful women. Although in the past, there’s been much less clothing and murder involved.”

Hawke favored him with a wan smile before turning to her sister. “Lead on, sis. Let’s get Mother some good news for a change.”

The Amell estate was once the toast of Hightown society, but slavers didn’t care for things like family crests or cleanliness and the place was a wreck. They cut through the would-be defenders, both sisters wielding their powers with an unusual, but in hindsight not unexpected, cruelty. Varric found himself cornered at one point, only to have his assailant’s ribcage crack like a butcher’s basket as Hawke leapt down on to him from behind. She twisted her dagger deep into the wriggling body, the tip of her blade shining through wet, sucking lung as he breathed his last. Varric swallowed a dry heave and she met his eyes. Hawke, his clever, sly, beautiful Hawke with a ready joke and mischief in her smile? That Hawke wasn’t here right now. 

_His… clever… beautiful… his? He chuffed deep in his chest. The Maiden caught his eye again, and he stared at her blue and white stars like they held the answer to a question he didn’t know how to ask. It was always Hawke, but he’d never been forced to think about their history like this before. Well. Better late than never, he supposed. He was sorely tempted to skip ahead to the point of realization and… consummation, but he squashed the thread. He couldn’t give the Seeker any reason to think they’d been more than friends and sometime business associates. He dove back into the memory of the estate, its decay a glass of ice water to his musings._

Aveline’s battle cry sounded from the next room and she was off, racing to intercept the new threat. He took a moment to reload Bianca and shake the uneasy feeling that he still didn’t know Hawke, and might not get the chance.

Stone cold relief washed over him when they found the vault and walked out of the house to greet the bright morning sun. The Hawkes left him in the doorway, giddy with their discovery of the will that left the estate to their mother. He didn’t hold it against them. He wasn’t sure he wanted to share their company just then, anyway. He found one of his Hightown ops and told them to keep things quiet for a day or two, then headed to the Hanged Man for a well deserved meal and several hours of uninterrupted sleep.

Almost a week passed before Hawke darkened his door again. “Darkened” wasn’t exactly right, though. “Slammed through with no warning” was closer to the mark. 

“Varric!” She sounded rough, edging on panic. He glanced up from his vellum-strewn table. “I need you.”

He shuffled through the papers, breathing through the sudden hole in his chest. _Not like that, you dotard._ “Hawke. Take a number.”

She made a strangled noise. “Fine, I need Bianca.” He grunted. _“Varric.”_ He laid his papers down to face her. “We need to go to Sundermount.”

He was beset by a sudden, blinding headache. He lifted a hand to his brow, rubbing at the dagger embedded there. “Hawke…”

She swept across the room to kneel beside him. The hole in his chest filled with sparrows as he looked down on her for a change. Her eyes were tight and her mouth a grim line of need, but her nose was a perfect, even line from this angle, and he could just make out a dusting of freckles over her cheekbones. His hand lifted to cup her face. He realized what he was doing and forced it to change direction, to run his fingers through his loose hair and gather it into a short tail. She watched him tie it back, hopeful.

“Okay, Hawke. Why do you need me to climb a Maker damned mountain this time?” She produced an amulet from one of her many hidden pockets. It was beautiful, but even he could tell there was something very, very wrong with it. “And this is…?”

“A promise. I’ve been so caught up with the Reds and you and the expedition and just surviving that I forgot, but I need to keep it, Varric. She feels like she’s done waiting. She feels… close.” Varric raised an eyebrow. “I can’t say more than that. Will you come?”

He looked back at the orderly chaos on his table. _And you_…? “Right this minute?”

She bit her lip. Maker’s breath, his pants were getting tight watching her kneel by his chair. He wasn’t attracted to humans, right? Too flashy, too fast, too much damn leg. He pulled at his trousers and pulled his mind toward less heated subjects. Like climbing Sundermount for the second time in as many months.

“Beth and Fenris are waiting for us downstairs. I know this isn’t ideal, but we could really use your help.” She looked at him from under her lashes, and he was done. Dead man walking, make way, make way. “Please,” she said.

Varric stood, pressing his hips into the table’s edge as he filed the latest Darktown reports with the others. “Alright, you’ve made your case. Meet me downstairs in ten; I need to change into something less comfortable.” 

She grinned and planted a swift kiss on his cheek as she rose. He waved her off and she practically flounced across the room, closing his door with all the care she hadn’t opened it in. He looked down at the bulge in his trousers. “And what am I supposed to do with you?” he asked. He looked around his chambers for some relief, but his gaze settled on Bianca. _Bianca._ Every fluttering sparrow dropped stone dead to the pit of his stomach. He shrugged into his duster slowly, queasy with the swing from unexpected arousal to black despair. He clipped Bianca to his back, and her solid weight slowed the sudden vortex of his thoughts. He looked down and barked a bitter laugh. At least his trousers fit again. He needed to be anywhere but here, even if that meant climbing a mountain. He left to meet them at the bar.

In hindsight, taking the hostile, formerly enslaved elf to the Dalish encampment had been a terrible idea. He raised an eyebrow at Hawke as Broody McBrooderface went on ad nauseum about the dangers of blood magic while they fought waves of shades on the mountaintop. She just shrugged and let him get it out of his system, and their new elvhen blood mage turned her unsettling power against their enemies like she’d heard it all before and wasn’t about to stop now. Varric had liked her from the drop, mage or no. She had a sweetness about her that overrode his misgivings about the Dalish, and blood magic, and nearly forgotten rites that loosed dragons from cursed amulets. He couldn’t quite forgive her for making him climb even more of the mountain, though. 

When the amulet was cleansed, the dragon-witch-mythical being sassed, her prophecies given, and the blood mage sent away from the only home she’d ever known, they returned to Kirkwall. He turned to their newest companion, Merrill, as she looked sadly around the dirty, impoverished alienage. Hawke told her to think of it as an adventure, and his heart broke to see her brave, terrified smile. He swore then and there that he’d do everything in his considerable power to keep her safe, his pure little daisy among the weeds.

He walked the Hawkes to their door. Sunshine slipped in with only a brief peck on the top of his head, giving them a throwaway line about needing to wash. Hawke slid down the wall to sit on the dusty ground, picking at a patch of shade ichor that stained her sleeve. Varric leaned Bianca on the wall and sat down beside her, and she leaned her leg against his. He held his breath, waiting for a rush of heat, a stab in the gut, perhaps for the skies to crash down on his head. None of that happened. Her thigh was heavy, thick with muscle that could put a dwarf to shame, and it was warm through her leathers, and it pressed beautifully against a sore spot on his own. He relaxed into the simple animal pleasure of willing, wanted contact. How long had it been since he’d let someone just, touch him? And how long had it been for her? They sat like that for a long time, quietly, taking comfort in the other’s presence. Hawke broke the silence.

“Think Merrill will be okay here?”

Varric nodded. “There’s steel under that gentle exterior. Did you see how little the elf riled her?”

Hawke huffed. “Fenris. He’s pretty but Andraste’s _ass,_ he’s such an idiot.”

Relief washed through him with her casual dismissal of the tattooed elf. Perhaps there had been ogling, but the way she talked about him here it seemed like it was the cool, clinical variety. 

“I can’t disagree,” he said. Maker curse him, he couldn’t let it be. “What about Blondie? He rubs me wrong, but having a Warden join us in the Deep Roads might prove invaluable.” 

She chewed her lip. “Anders, Anders. Anders seems like an obvious choice, though I hate to take him away from his clinic. That spirit of his, Justice…” she shivered. “I don’t know. I’ll have to bring him on a few more jobs, test his control. He ought to be fine, so long as there are no templars involved. Besides, much as I love Bethany, her healing spells blighting sting.” She shifted, removing her leg from his. The place where she’d been was suddenly cold, and he was struck by the weight of loss that came with the chill. “This is all academic until we get the coin together though, isn’t it.”

He nodded. “We must be at least halfway there, yeah?” She hugged her knees to her chest. He edged closer, pressing his shoulder against hers. She leaned into him, and the loss was swallowed by a flood of warmth. “We’ll get there, Hawke.” He tucked a loose tendril of sable hair behind her ear with his other hand, bringing his face nearer to hers. He was pushing again, very much in her personal space. He wondered at his insistence, and at her acceptance. She tilted her head to look at him. Her eyes were soft in the starlight, curious, tired. Sharp. Sharp? He blinked.

“Is Bianca a real person, Varric?”

Revulsion clawed through him, ice cold and damning. He shouldn’t be here. He stood, returning Bianca to her holster. “I should get back,” he said, pointedly Not Answering. She looked up at him, hurt but resigned. He opened his mouth to say more. There was nothing to say. He closed it and left for the Hanged Man.

…

The fire guttered in the hearth. Varric pushed off the wall and stretched, leaning down to knuckle a stubborn knot in his calf. He poured a small glass of water and drank, noting how little sediment was there these days. After… everything, the water supply had been nigh useless. There had been rationing, riots, and waves of pestilence following the explosion that claimed more lives than the blast ever could have. Look at the water now, though. The finer buildings had been rebuilt with indoor plumbing, hot or cold running water, as much as you’d like. He shook his head, set the glass down and climbed into bed. Growth could be painful. Change was hard. His face touched the pillow, and he knew no more til morning.


	4. There's No I in Team, but There Is a ME

Varric squinted against the sunlight. Much as he enjoyed its warmth, it made for difficult reading. He let the journal fall to his lap and closed his eyes. A salty breeze drifted through a crack in the window, and he wondered how the open sea was treating his favorite pirate captain. Admiral, he corrected after a moment. He turned to look toward the unseen shore, its dark waves obscured by the stone and timber of Hightown. 

…

It started with the slam of a tankard on the bar. Varric looked up from the latest report from his mole in the Guard, listening for trouble. Raised voices, all male. One female, low but amused. He knew that one. He tapped the notes into a neat pile and made for the stairs. If he was right, the tavern was about ten seconds from being treated to a show.

Heavy gold jewelry flashed against dark skin. A blue kerchief kept delicate locs out of amber eyes, and the white tunic hardly counted as clothing in most ports. He grinned. The Rivaini had returned. She turned to the tight, hostile group surrounding her with a serpent’s grin and a full cup of ale. The leader slapped the drink from her hand, and Varric shook his head with a low chuckle. One did not mess with Rivaini’s drink, if one wanted to keep his testicles. She slid her hand up the man’s neck like a fifty sovereign consort, and slammed his head twice on the bar with brutal efficiency. Varric crossed his arms and leaned on the wall. She was just getting started. Another man pinned her from behind, and that’s when he saw Hawke.

Hawke drew her daggers to leap into the fray. Varric’s sharp whistle split the air. The brawl went on, but Hawke looked up. She saw him and gestured to the lone woman fighting four men at once, her shoulders hunched in exasperation. He waved her off, pointing two fingers to his eyes, then one down to the bar. _Wait. Watch._ She scowled at him, but she did sheath her daggers.

‘Bela had broken free and was laying into two others. The man who’d been stupid enough to grab her was lolling boneless on the bar, and the leader had gone to draw his ridiculous longsword. She dispatched the pair and held a dagger to the swordsman’s neck before he had it half our of its scabbard. 

“Is it worth dying for, Lucky?” Her voice was quiet, but everyone heard it in the sudden silence. Lucky’s men had already limped off. He let the sword fall back into its scabbard and slunk away. She reclined on the bar and waved for another drink. “I didn’t think so,” she said with a smile.

Hawke raised her eyebrows at him, and he nodded. A thrill ran up his spine as two of his favorite women met for the first time. He grinned and went downstairs to make formal introductions. ‘Bela ruffled his hair fondly. Several years had gone by since they’d seen each other, but they fell into their old habits immediately. She’d blown into port with trouble nipping at her heels as usual, and as usual, she asked him to help with it. Hawke rolled her eyes. 

“Can’t anyone solve their own problems in this city?”

‘Bela grinned. “Must be something in the water. Meet me in Hightown after dark,” her voice dipped, “and I’ll make it worth your while.”

Varric suppressed a shiver at her timbre, and he saw Hawke do the same. _Pirates._

He turned to Hawke. “So, is it business or pleasure that brings you to my humble home?”

“Why can’t it be both?” she said with a twinkle in her eye. 

‘Bela laughed into her drink. “Oh get a room, you two. Unless you’d like to make it three?”

Hawke looked like she was considering the offer. Varric tugged her away before she could consider it into reality. They climbed the stairs to his chambers, and he closed the door. They settled in at his low stone table. 

“Isabela’s a ruthless flirt, Hawke. She has a string of broken hearts in every port.”

Hawke grinned. “Mmhm. Unlike a certain dwarf I could name, who leaves a trail of swooning ladies everywhere he goes.”

He laughed. “Flattery will get you everywhere. So, what is it today? Need me to scare up some work for you? Perhaps I could recommend a tailor to make you a bit of finery ahead of your triumphant return?”

Her grin faltered. “I’m coming up short, Varric. The moment I have a decent amount of gold scraped together, there's some new expense. Just the other day we were fighting what seemed like a bog standard street gang, and out of nowhere a mage starts throwing fireballs! Beth’s robes were cinders and ash by the time they fell. Do you know how much robes cost?” 

Varric did know, but he also knew a rhetorical question when he heard one. Hawke slumped forward to rest her forehead on her arms. He placed his hand on her shoulder. When she didn’t flinch away, he started rubbing small, soothing circles around her upper back. She hummed.

He patted her and leaned away, suddenly affected by the vibration of her breath in his palm. He cleared his throat. “If it’s any consolation, Bartrand’s no closer to leaving without you. He’s stretched every line of credit to the maximum, but we’re still short of paying for the excavators, and no one has rations enough for more than the first week.” She looked up at him. “We have time, is all I’m saying. You’ll get there.” She studied her hands. He checked a report, folded it, and slid it across the table. “Here, I have some intel on the latest group of ne’er do wells to harass the docks at night. Clear them out and you’ll be back on track. And, ‘Bela has contacts all over the Waking Sea. Make a good impression tonight; I’m sure she’ll have paying work for you.”

She skimmed the report, nodded, and slipped it into a pocket as she stood to leave. “Ugh. Sorry you have to see me like…” she gestured vaguely to her person, “this.”

He gave her his warmest, most reassuring smile. “I’ve seen worse, Hawke. Swing by tonight, before you meet with ‘Bela.”

She nodded. He watched her go, his smile fading. There was a name for the nasty stab to the chest he’d felt at ‘Bela’s obvious interest in her. It was on the tip of his tongue, bitter and burning. He shook his head. He was a busy man. He picked up a Darktown missive, read it twice, and scribbled a quick reply authorizing a recurring payment to the Coterie. Anders might be a spirit ridden abomination, but his clinic was a rare flame of hope in an otherwise hopeless place. He’d do his part to keep it burning.

It seemed like no time at all had passed when the Hawkes came for him. He’d been balls deep in accounting ledgers and bills of lading most of the afternoon, chasing loose ends Bartrand had left dangling while he prepped the expedition. He rubbed his brow. It didn’t ease the stabbing headache, but it felt better than doing nothing. Hawke slammed his door open mid-rub, which turned into a full facepalm as pain bloomed in his skull. 

“Varric!” He looked up. She was beaming, all traces of the lost woman he’d comforted earlier thoroughly banished. “Ready to go defend the wicked?”

He grunted. By Andraste's burning knickers, he was too young for reading glasses, but he was far too old for this shit. He rose heavily and slipped the stack of notes into a file. The sisters returned downstairs to share a pint and devour every bowl of hard, greasy pretzels at the bar while they waited for him.

They left in high spirits, singing shanties and sea songs. The sisters had picked several up during their voyage from Ferelden, and Varric taught them some he knew from his time on Kirkwall’s docks. Beth skirted the meeting point to rendezvous with Fenris near his mansion, which left Hawke and Varric alone when they were ambushed by thugs in guard uniform. Her daggers rang free and she flew into the air to land on an enemy archer, so like her namesake Varric nearly missed his first mark. He didn’t, and the swordsman hit the ground with a crunch of cheap armor and wooden bolts. 

He started humming Bianca’s song, the triple verses, the triplet chorus. Beginning, middle, end, again and again. Their assailants went down steadily, until Hawke’s voice stuttered his tune. 

“Ohhh have you heard the news, me Johnny?” She was singing. Her voice was low and full, a husky mezzo you could light a cigar on.

He grinned and gave the response. “One more day…” He could do warm and husky with the best of them, a baritone through and through.

She rolled under a longsword’s swipe and slashed the man’s throat. Dark blood sprayed in the moonlight. “We’re homeward bound tomorrow—”

An assassin appeared behind her, blades drawn. Bianca pinned the man to the pillar behind them. “One more day, only one more day, me Johnny.”

She plunged her blades deep into the assassin’s belly, twisting as she went. “Only one more day oh, rock and roll me over, one more day.”

They cut through the remaining false guardsmen through four more verses, old men growlin’, mates a howlin’ as they went. When the last one fell to Bianca’s wrath, they checked for lasting wounds. He felt a trickle down his side and turned to let her see. Hawke knelt to look closer, a hesitant tug at the collar of his duster. He shrugged it down and pulled his tunic up, feeling rather exposed as her gentle fingers traced a thin line of blood. He heard rummaging, then felt a soreness as she cleaned the wound followed by the sting of thick poultice. Stranger still, he heard a rustle of cloth, and then tearing. He turned. She had her chest armor off and was tearing a piece from the tail of her shirt, completely absorbed in the process as she folded it into a neat square. He’d never seen her out of armor.

The tunic she wore was faded but clean, a bit too large for her form. It draped over her thick, well muscled arms and clung to her tightly bound breasts, then fell to ghost over the flat planes of her stomach. The moonlight turned several threadbare patches transparent, and he could make out an atlas of scars. His breath hitched. 

Varric wasn’t religious. Having been born on the surface, the Stone had never called to him. The Maker and his human wife were compelling names to swear on, but he’d never felt right swearing by them. 

Varric wasn’t religious, but in that moment, under the moon in a blood drenched Hightown square, he’d have sworn by all the gods that he was looking at one. 

Of course she ruined it.

“Ahem.” He swallowed. “My eyes are up here, Varric.” Ah. They were up there, alight with mockery as she held a makeshift bandage in both hands. “Turn around.” He did. She placed the folded cloth of her tunic against the cut, then used the linen torn from a guardsman’s sash to tie it just under his ribs. 

She grunted softly as she stretched around him to reach the loose end of the cloth, and he chuckled. “Problem, Hawke?”

She tied the knot with a tug he knew was harder than necessary. “Evasion won't work on me, serah. I saw you.” She helped him back into his duster. “I’d be happy to sit for a painting, if the coin was right.” 

He scoffed, but the remainder of the walk was a blur. They caught up to the rest of their party in an empty square. ‘Bela said something about not liking the quiet and he made some pithy reply, only to have the quiet broken by mercs. She’d been right about her old friend not playing fair. They dispatched their attackers handily, Hawke throwing in a little extra flair when she caught ‘Bela looking her way. Varric smirked. The Rivaini would like that. He was relieved the Hawke sisters were working overtime, because the wound at his side pulled like a bastard each time he brought Bianca up to aim at anyone taller than he was, and they were all blighting taller than he was. 

They found 'Bela's quarry in the Chantry. Varric sent a telepathic apology to Andraste and the Maker for the blood they were about to spill on consecrated ground. Sure he wasn’t religious, but it never hurt to be respectful. ‘Bela and her mark had words, and when she grew tired of talk, she sent her dagger into the chest of the merc standing next to him. The woman died gasping. Varric drew Bianca, cursed the pull at his ribs, and let fly. 

The man was deadly for all his cowardice. He pressed the elf hard, their greatswords meeting swing for swing in a cacophony of steel. More mercs appeared, and Hawke peeled off to intercept them. She distracted the group and pulled them around a corner. Varric saw the subtle nod to her sister, and Sunshine called a firestorm on them as they rounded it. Hawke wove through the chaos just as she had in their first battle together, opening throats and severing tendons. The smell of burning cloth and hair became overwhelming. Varric coughed and shook his head. A bolt to the throat was clean, quiet, efficient. The Hawkes were none of those things, but Maferath's hairy balls, they got results.

‘Bela slipped her daggers through a slit in the leader’s armor, and he coughed dark blood onto the elf. Fenris stepped to the side, disgusted, and shoved him down the stairs. He rolled like a broken toy, dead before he reached the bottom. ‘Bela stepped over him.

“Nice work, my lovelies,” she said as she looked over his corpse. She pulled a curvy dagger from under his cloak, admired the jeweled hilt, and slid it into her boot. “I have a room at the Hanged Man.” She trailed her fingers over Hawke’s bloodied wrists. “Meet me there if you’d like some, company later.”

Sunshine groaned. “At least wait to proposition my sister until we’re not standing in a Chantry, covered in gore and surrounded by bodies?”

Varric chuckled. Being the younger sibling was rough sometimes.

…

He’d broken his fast hours ago with toasted bread, butter, preserves, and a slice of bacon so thick and salty he was still pulling it from his teeth. Still the Seeker’s goons hadn’t come for him. He’d been allowed a short bath in tepid water and had his clothes sent to the washing room, been given a thin stack of vellum, ink, a quill, a mug of tea. He sat at the table, bouncing his leg. Did Seekers observe holidays? Was today a holiday? He didn’t trust it. Didn’t trust the armed guards not to break in without knocking, didn’t trust the spies not to read his letters. He looked through the door, his mind making patterns from the random lines and circles in the grain. Order from chaos, meaning from the void… the talespinner’s work.

…

“Maker’s breath, Hawke!” Varric slammed his tankard down. “The Bone Pit? The name alone wasn’t enough?”

“Two words, Varric.” She flicked a wrinkled pea at him. He swatted it aside. “Fereldan. Refugees. Dying.”

“That’s three.”

The others watched them bicker with varying degrees of amusement. The Hanged Man was full near to bursting with patrons in dripping coats and sloshing shoes, and the torrential downpour that chased them inside still pounded against the building. They’d brought their drinks and a huge plate laden with the best the Man had to offer to Varric’s chambers to escape the crowded tavern. The food wasn’t very nice, but it was filling. Hawke was celebrating. Varric was decidedly Not. 

“And who is accompanying you on this idiotic, suicidal constitutional through a thrice cursed mine?” Hawke raised an eyebrow. “Ohh no. Nope. You have plenty of people who owe you favors, Hawke. I’m out.” He was, in fact, not out. He would get his kicking and screaming in first, though.

“How am I supposed to rout ancient curses without my trusty dwarf? I need you watching my back!”

“Bone. Pit. There’s a reason it’s owned by a foreign merchant and worked by foreign refugees! No one with any sense goes near that hole.”

Hawke leaned forward. “This will put us over the line, Varric. I clean this place up, we give your brother his maps and his gold, and we can all skip town for a while.”

Sunshine cleared her throat. Varric looked at her, and she mouthed the word _pleeease_ and made her gigantic doe eyes. He grumbled into his drink. Hawke piled more roast meat and veg onto her plate, and stabbed a mince tart for good measure. She’d filled out over the last few weeks, thanks in no small part to Varric’s many invitations for a round of drinks which always included a bowl of those awful pretzels at the minimum, but more often, a full meal. He’d collected plenty of strays before, but with Hawke, he wasn’t entirely sure just who had collected whom. He needed her in top form, regardless.

Hawke finished her ale. As he left to get another, he conceded. “Alright, Hawke, we’ll go cave diving.” She leapt from her chair to sweep him into a crushing hug. He patted her back. “No one’s going out in this blighted tempest, though. I’m going downstairs for another round, and it’s going on your tab.” She released him with a groan. “What? You’ll be back from the Deep Roads by the time it’s due, you’re good for it.”

A deck of cards was produced in his absence, and ‘Bela dealt him in. They played Wicked Grace as the storm raged outside. Hawke was as slippery a player as she was a fighter, Rivaini a known and ruthless cheat. Aveline was surprisingly adept, but poor Sunshine, she was hopeless. Varric resolved to teach her a few tricks as he swept his latest winnings into a steadily growing pile.

The storm broke late into the night, and their little party broke with it. He saw them to the door, Aveline steady on her feet despite the several tankards of ale she’d downed, the Hawkes leaning on each other, giggling at some inside joke. Close as Gamlen’s place was, he didn’t like them going out alone like this. Which was stupid. Even a sloppy drunk Hawke was more than a match for anything Kirkwall’s streets could throw at her. He inhaled the fresh air that followed a good rain. It was the best Lowtown ever smelled, and he chalked the warmth in his chest up to the alchemy of rain drenched streets and a full belly. He returned to his chambers and sank into the low stone chair, picked up a quill, and jotted the day into his journal.

The next morning dawned smoky and grey, the foundries working double time to make up for the work stoppage caused by the freak storm. He shrugged into his duster and clipped Bianca into her holster at his back, double checked the potions at his belt, and ran a finger along the dagger he kept in his boot. Sharp. Good. He threw a scarf around his neck to keep off the chill and left for their rendezvous at the bazaar.

They weren’t there.

He waited for nearly an hour, then went to find them. Two templars loitered across from Gamlen’s door in a scrap of shade. He let his hair down, threw his scarf over his jaw to hide his beardless chin and sauntered over to them, his mind working furiously to come up with a good enough story.

“Gentlemen!” They turned and missed him. Humans. “Down here.” Ah, that familiar look of mild disgust. He could work with that. “Thank the Maker I found you. There’s a mage staying at the Hanged Man, I think he’s talking to demons at night! He just returned from the book merchant, you can catch him if you hurry!”

They took a moment to look at each other and nod before striding off to the tavern. He muttered a quick apology to whatever unlucky soul they barged in on, and hurried to Gamlen’s door. A sour looking, sourer smelling Gamlen answered his knock. 

“Tell the girls that the templars are gone, but not for long.”

“They’re not home,” Gamlen said with a sneer.

“Well of course they’re not, they haven’t got one.” Varric gave him his winningest smile.

“Blighted dwarf. They aren’t here. Left hours ago to meet with you.” The door slammed in his face.

Well, shit. He swallowed his heart back down. Think, Varric. The templar guard hadn’t seen them go, so that was good. They’d left earlier than he had, and he was early to everything. They had a prior engagement. One that had taken longer than anticipated. Much longer. He returned to the bazaar, hoping they’d be there this time.

He scanned the sun drenched square, and a flash of steel caught his eye. Relief washed over him. Hawke stood at the weaponsmith’s stall, spinning a blade that could pass for a shortsword. Sunshine pored over the trinkets nearby, asking the merchant a rush of questions about her wares. He crossed the flagstones a touch faster than usual and parked himself at Hawke’s elbow. Her face lit up when she saw him. 

“Varric! Ready to delve into my dark, dangerous cave?” she asked. 

“Any time, but we’re a bit overdressed for it,” he said with a grin.

She snorted. “Any time? Is that a promise, serah?”

He looked around, casual. “I prefer a bed and a locked door myself, but we can make do with a dark corner and an overturned crate if you’re in a hurry.”

She laughed and bumped him with her hip. “You’re awful.” Her grin faded. “I’m sorry we were so late. Beth and I were checking out some rumors, but everything got too… busy. We’ll have to wait until tonight.” He raised an eyebrow, but she was done talking about it for the moment. “So! Shall we drop by the barracks to grab Aveline and pay this cursed mine a visit?”

He nodded. “Let’s go delve your cave, Hawke.”

She waved Sunshine over. “I generally insist on having dinner first, but since you’ve been such a good friend, I’ll let you buy it after.”

His ears were oddly warm in the chill air. He rubbed them as he followed the sisters up the Lowtown steps.

The Bone Pit lived up to its reputation. Pieces of the miners were scattered around the entrance as if they’d been torn apart by wild beasts. Inside the mine, they found the wild beasts. 

“Baby dragons!” Hawke squealed. “They’d be so cute… if they weren’t eating people.” She looked like she might cry as she beheaded the dragonlings that swarmed them.

Bianca dropped them as fast as he could pull her trigger. “Scaly, beady eyed mini-murderers,” he grumbled, “adorable.”

Aveline stomped the life out of one as it tried to climb her leg. “Babies. I don’t know much about dragons, Hawke, but don’t babies usually have a mother nearby?”

They did have a mother nearby. Hawke beamed as it roared spittle and fire at them. She turned to her ragged and singed crew. “Guys. It’s a dragon. There’s a real, live dragon, right here.”

Sunshine rolled her eyes. “Only you would be excited about a surprise dragon at the end of a tunnel. What are we going to do?”

Hawke shrugged. “Ask it nicely to leave?” 

Varric snickered. “Oi, dragon,” he called, “mind clearing out so my friend can make a few sovereigns?” Hawke elbowed him, and the dragon roared. He shrugged. “Worth a try,” he said.

Aveline stared at her. “Hawke. You can’t be serious.” Hawke stared at the horned squatter, entranced. “We are not prepared to fight a mature dragon! The dragonlings were one thing but—”

Hawke charged. Aveline cursed as she drew her sword, and Sunshine gathered a massive fireball between her hands. Varric pulled Bianca forward and aimed for the swinging head as flames spewed from its mouth. Hawke ran full tilt toward it, then dropped to a slide as her daggers rang free. She plunged them into the belly of the beast, tearing double rents into the soft underscales as her momentum carried her forward. The tail whipped for her, but she rolled under it and reversed her grip. Bracing her feet, she buried her blades deep into the back of its leg, hamstringing the beast. 

The dragon bellowed fury and pain, giving Varric a clear shot at its throat. He sunk bolt after bolt into its neck, and the next roar was nothing more than a gurgle. Aveline took the brunt of a wild claw swipe with her shield, but a lucky talon caught her shoulder and threw her to the ground. Sunshine froze the other front leg and Hawke shot through the beast, shattering the leg with a brutal downswing. She dragged Aveline away from the dragon as it fell, nodding to her sister to see to the wound. The dragon unleashed a final gout of flame, too weak to reach the little group. Varric sent a hail of arrows into its body, and it breathed its last. 

Aveline grimaced as Bethany knitted the tear in her shoulder closed. Varric and Hawke shared a glance; they’d all been spoiled by the soothing touch of Anders’ healing spells. They spread out, looting the dragon’s hoard and rifling its belly for anything worthwhile. It was messy work, but they were already covered in blood and soot. They rinsed what they could in the little stream that ran through the mine, shared a small lunch of bread and soft cheese, and left the Bone Pit damp and sore, but content. 

The mine's owner wasn’t able to give exactly the reward he’d promised. She did not take it well. 

“Five! You can’t tell me that nug humper doesn’t have five lousy sovereigns. His fancy silk dress is worth more than that! I’m going back, Varric. I’m going back and I am stripping him naked in the square, and I am selling—”

Varric hooked a finger through her belt and pulled her down to face him. She hit the ground hard, furious. “You can’t strip your new business partner in the square, Hawke. You can’t even do it at the Rose until you’ve both signed several legally binding documents.” She scoffed. “And now, you have a stake in a legitimate business. Who’d have thought you would go for a long term plan?” He clapped her on the shoulder. “Seems my good example is finally rubbing off on you.” She rolled her eyes, but she was listening again. “Besides, it’s only five sovereigns. We’ll make that before the end of the week, and you’re now the proud owner of half a cursed mine.” Her rage faded. She leaned in to rest her forehead on his. He hummed. “Say, weren’t you checking on a rumor earlier?”

She nodded against him. “Something about a Chantry Sister, but Maker’s breath, I really thought this would be the end of it.”

He huffed. “Nothing’s over til it is.” He pushed gently against her and she stood. He glanced at Sunshine. “Let’s get you ladies cleaned up. There’s a lovely bathhouse just down the way. My treat.” Bethany started to decline, but he held up a hand. “Listen, I won’t have you looking like beaten kitchen wenches if I’m going to be seen in public with the two of you later. Here’s the fee,” he flipped a silver to each. “Try the steam bath while you’re there.”

Hawke plucked hers from the air and dropped a lazy curtsey. “Whatever it takes to soothe your delicate sensibilities, messere. Do they have private rooms? I’ll need one if I dwell too long on you, ah, rubbing off on me.” She winked. 

Sunshine smacked the back of her sister’s head. Varric laughed a bit too loudly, and a second too long, as the image _Hawke beneath him, legs hitched around his hips as he traces the map of scars etched into her skin with his lips and tongue, her breath in his hair and her fingers digging into the thick muscle of his shoulders as he dips lower, slides down through her legs to trail kisses along the ridge of her hip, her electric curls brush his neck, he can feel them on his beardless jaw and she gasps and bucks impatiently at his teasing— _

He shook himself out of it with a sigh and a shudder just in time to see them disappear around a corner. He rubbed his brow. This was all becoming complicated, and his life was blighting well complicated enough. He looked down. His duster was spattered with dragon blood and ancestors knew what else, and Bianca had a few more scratches than they left with that morning. Good. Nothing like routine maintenance to soothe the savage breast. He bought some polishing oil from a nearby merchant and went home.

…

The Seeker had come for him late that afternoon. She’d been tired and distracted, and he’d woven some very fine lies that day, if he said so himself. Oh they were all close enough to the truth, but there were holes and omissions aplenty. And why not. The Chantry didn’t need to know how Hawke’s eyes lit up when Norah slid a plate of fried fish to her, or how her shoulders would tense at the clanking of templar patrols. They didn’t need to know about the hours they spent playing Wicked Grace at his table any more than they needed to know that the Qunari mage gave Hawke a far more powerful relic than the eerie necklace she passed to Merrill. He frowned. The control core was still at the estate. He’d told her to take it but she’d refused, said the thing made her hair stand on end. He scrubbed his face in his palms. What a fucking mess.

…

Hawke cleaned her blades with a polishing cloth snatched from a nearby corpse. Dead Qunari surrounded them, their hulking grey bodies like overlong sentences punctuated by jet black horns. Fenris rested on a low stone, blade in his lap, likewise wiping blood and gore from the silvered steel. Varric gathered bolts from the fallen and inspected them, keeping the salvageable, dropping the rest. Sunshine watched the Qunari mage.

“You alright, Beth?” Sunshine nodded to her sister without taking her eyes from the bent grey form. Hawke exhaled noisily. “Leave it to us to find the most conniving Sister in the Kirkwall Chantry.”

Varric jutted his chin toward the massacre. “They knew we were coming. I do believe, we were supposed to die here.” He huffed. “She chose poorly in choosing well.”

Hawke tweaked her lips in a quick, wry smile. “Don’t pay for the best when failure’s the goal.” She scoffed. “She probably had no idea what that kind of coin would buy. What’s seven sovereigns to a woman wearing cloth of gold and a brace of flawless rubies?” She sighed and turned to her sister. “Has he moved?” 

Sunshine shook her head. “He’s caged. It’s not any kind of magic I’ve seen before.”

Hawke sheathed her daggers and went to the fallen leader. She lifted the strange rod he’d held and pressed a glowing rune. The giant mage fell forward, released. He stood. 

“I am… unbound.”

Varric raised an eyebrow. From the shorn hollows where his horns should have been and the gilded cage over his eyes, to the thick black thread that pierced his lips, the broad collar and shackles linked with heavy chain, unbound was not the first word he’d have chosen. From where he stood, this Qunari was still very much bound.

Hawke and the mage walked to the cliff and spoke. He broke the rod and shook a gleaming cabochon to the sand; she picked it up and gingerly slipped it into a pouch. He removed his necklace, and handing it to her, motioned to step back. She made to protest, but he’d turned to face the sea. She stepped toward him. He called a tower of fire around himself, forcing her to fall back. She stumbled to Varric coughing, eyes bright with unshed tears. She tried to steady herself on his shoulder, but fell to her knees instead and leaned hard against him. He shifted his weight to better bear hers. 

“I tried, Varric. He wouldn’t listen.”

He put his arm around her shoulder. “He said his code demanded it?” She nodded. The mage fell to his knees and slumped over without a word, without a whimper. Varric shivered. “That’s the Qun for you. Certainty in an uncertain world can exact a dire price.”

He helped her stand, and they left the small cove and its smell of fire and death. When they returned to the Sister’s hiding place, she and her templar were leaving. The Sister tried to defend her ploy. Hawke silenced her and demanded the gold she’d been promised. The Sister handed it over with a sneer, but Hawke had already turned her back. The sisters Hawke were well finished with the Sister Petrice.

With the seven sovereigns in hand, they had the gold to begin the expedition and then some. Fenris left for his Hightown manse with an extra piece of gold in his pocket, and Varric walked the Hawkes to their door. Again, Sunshine went inside at once and left Hawke alone with him. Again, Hawke sat on the ground and leaned against the night-cool stone wall, and again, Varric set Bianca down to sit beside her. Sitting like this they were of a height, and he could look on her face without a crick in his neck. Sitting like this, he could see the wetness spring into the corners of her eyes. She blinked. He wiped the tear that fell with his rough thumb, and left a smudge of darker grey in the soot staining her cheeks. 

“Can we leave tomorrow?” she asked.

“Tomorrow? No. There’s still rations to purchase and agreements to sign now that we’ve the gold for them. Even with the two of us that will take a full day. Another day to load the wagons and gather the hirelings—”

She slammed her head back against the wall. Varric stopped talking and instead, gaped like a fish. “They know us now, Varric. They know. We need to go.” 

He closed his mouth. Of course, the Sister’s templar escort had seen Bethany wield her powers. They’d suspected for weeks, but now they had proof. A flurry of calculations later, he took her hand. She looked down at their hands, then up to his eyes. She arched a perfect eyebrow, asking just what that was about.

“I can get you out of the city. Tonight. Take your sister and wait for me at Anders’ clinic.” She squeezed his hand to the point of pain. He made to let go, but she darted forward. Her lips pressed on his, her lashes fluttered against his cheek, her scent filled his nose. Smoke and leather, rose and sweet bay. She was gone before he understood. He opened his eyes to the door closing on a dark room. He raised his fingers to his mouth, perhaps hoping he might catch the phantom pressure of her kiss. 

A bright, bubbly giddiness filled his chest. He hefted himself up, and wrote it off as nerves. He promised a known mercenary and her apostate sister protection from the templars, after all, most intelligent men would be nervous before such a trick. He returned to his chambers with a swagger and a grin. If the tavern staff noticed, they didn’t let on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The shanty they sing while killing the pretender guards is called, appropriately, One More Day. It's used in Assassin's Creed as well, which I didn't know until I searched for the tune! 
> 
> Next stop, the Deep Roads. May be late posting again. Less time to write as the holiday season picks up.


	5. *The Four Songs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Light smut after the fart threat. You'll understand when you get there. 
> 
> Plot picks back up at "Don't be stupid, Hawke..."

He woke to the sound of rain on glass. Nothing changed when he opened his eyes; his room was black as pitch. The window was dark, and the ashes in the hearth were cold. A primal fear gripped him, something only other sun-touched would understand. He clenched his teeth against the ice in his gut and steadied his breathing by sheer force of will. Great ancestors, what kind of dwarf fears the dark? He exhaled through pursed lips, and as his heart thudded in his chest, he realized a sliver of light slipped under the door. His eyes traced the grey lines of rumpled sheets, the curve of his legs below, his mind ravenous for any input that would hold him to the world. He named the shapes in his room like a fresh god, _bed corner, hearth wall, table leg._ The panic rattled away before he reached _window glass,_ but it left him wrung out and fragile, exhausted in spite of having woken only moments before. 

He pulled the cover over his head and settled into a darkness of his own making. He would tell the Seeker about the Deep Roads when she came for him that day. He squeezed his eyes shut and turned his mind from its treacherous path. There was light before the long road. Light and life and a wild hope, and it was his. The Seeker would never know he kept it.

…

Varric dashed water from his eyes. The little bay he’d taken from Kirkwall steamed in the cold rain, breath hard in her barrel chest as her ambling gait devoured the road. A warm light glowed over the next rise, and his shoulders dropped from their former residence around his ears. He tugged on the reins. The mare tossed her head, impatient at his untrained hands, but she slowed to a bouncy walk. He softened his grip and she stretched her nose to the ground snorting, pulling the reins through his soaked gloves. The Four Songs was close, and he wasn’t about to be the dwarf handing his horse to the groom lathered and blowing. He rubbed her neck as the rain poured, the hair of her winter coat long and whorled with water and sweat. He’d arrive drenched and sore and smelling of horse, but for once in his life, the thought didn’t rankle. He’d expected a bellyful of twisting dread when the storm broke just as he passed through Kirkwall’s gates, but he found instead a keen yearning, a sharp, unexpected desire to be away no matter the weather. He was a compass, and the growing light ahead, his true north.

He came up to the inn at a lazy trot. The horse knew the way, so he shouldered his pack and dismounted without slowing her, knees loose to take the impact of muddy ground. He ran alongside the little mare, shouting for a groom. A rangy boy in shabby livery ran out to meet him. The groom caught the mare’s reins in one hand and the silver coin Varric flipped to him with the other, and with a quick nod, he and the horse disappeared into the stables. Varric jogged across the rutted path to the door, pausing only long enough to stomp the worst of the mud from his boots and fling what water he could from his long brimmed traveling hat before entering.

Thick, warm air, heavy with onions in butter and sharp with spilled ale, enveloped him the moment he opened the door. The sizzle of fat in a pan tickled his ear and his belly alike, but he only had eyes for her. Hawke presided over a small audience, tankard in hand, fire roaring in the hearth behind her. He watched as she spun her tale, and bit his cheek to keep from laughing. She was telling the story of the worst gang in Kirkwall and their chicken. He motioned to the serving girl for a drink and watched from the wall.

“So the leader! He says, he says— no… wait a minute,” she took a long drink, “he says, a prize laying hen? Maker damn you for fools, the contract’s for miserly praying men!” She finished her story and flung her arms wide, a shit eating grin plastered on her face.

Her audience erupted in groans, and one or two looked positively murderous. Varric chuckled into his ale, wondering how long she’d stretched the shaggy story this time. Her best time so far had been nearly ten minutes of winding, detail-ridden stupidity. A bard took up his lute as the crowd around her broke into smaller groups, and she tipped her tankard up to find it dry. She looked for the server, but found him instead. His ears burned, the air suddenly humid and close as the rush of heat swept through him. She stood with a sloppy grin, knuckles white on the chair as she fought for balance and raised her empty cup.

“Tethras! About that time, hey?” 

“Hawke.” He lifted his, water dripping from his elbow, from his boots, water dripping from everywhere. He was moist as a Hightown fish pie, and smelled worse. “Glad to see you haven’t let exile dampen your spirits.”

“Ha! Dampen!” She took a step toward him, wobbled, and eased herself down into the chair. “You’re plenty damp for both of us, messere.” She waved to the server. The woman looked over with a careworn gaze. “Another round for me an’ my friend,” Hawke said, “and some of that onion stew to warm his bones.”

Varric dripped over to her now deserted table and shucked the streaming duster to hang it near the fire. Below he wasn’t so badly off, soaked cuffs, wet patches on the outside of his trousers where the duster ended, perfectly sodden boots. Enough for discomfort, not so much as to leave her for his rooms. She pawed through his satchel. He snatched it back.

“Curiosity killed the cat,” he said.

Hawke grinned. “Satisfaction brought her back.” She looked at him, shiny and boozy, here and there. “Hello, handsome.”

He looked back, shiny and here, curious and catlike. “Hello yourself, beautiful. Where’s Sunshine?”

“My lustrous sister couldn’t bear to hear the chicken story again,” she said with a giggle. “I fooled her for about, oh, three minutes, but she left after the first feather pun.” 

Varric shook his head and surveyed the room, comforted by the familiar oaken beams, the peeling, yellowed plaster on the walls. It was exactly as he remembered from some ten and something years before, when it was called the Blind Nug. The new owner was a longtime tenant who’d won it in a particularly vicious game of Wicked Grace, with a suspiciously perfect hand of all four Song cards. The law had to be called to bust up the brawl it caused, but no one could prove the winner had cheated. Varric appreciated the massive brass balls they had to name it after their winning hand, a salty, lasting fuck you to their previous landlords. If only he could convince the Man’s owners to an equally high stakes game. 

“Hey,” Hawke laid light fingers on his shoulder, “you still here?”

He dropped his head with a soft huff. “Ha. Yeah, just thinking about the nights I spent here as a young man. Good to get out of the city sometimes.” 

Her fingers pressed gently into his shoulder, almost, caressing? Certainly testing, measuring the curve and breadth of dense muscle there. He wanted to acknowledge her touch, wanted her to know he could feel her intention. That could scare her off, though, and more than the possibility of a shared understanding, he didn’t want her to stop.

Hawke snorted. “Well well, let it be known that a young Varric Tethras once left Kirkwall of his own accord!” 

He wrinkled his nose. “I only went outdoors so I could be indoors somewhere else. I’m sure you’ve noticed as well,” he leaned back as the serving girl set a brimming bowl on the table before him, “there’s no blighted mountains between here and Kirkwall.”

Her fingers splayed as she leaned closer, squeezing his shoulder with her full hand as she stole the first spoonful of stew. “I suppose that’s fair,” she said while handing his spoon over. “Speaking of mountains and the blight, are we meeting with the expedition tomorrow?” He nodded. She took her hand off him to tear a hunk from the hard roll on his plate and dunk it into the broth. “Strange that it’s finally here,” she said.

He pointedly watched while she chewed. “Hawke.” She looked at him. “Should I ask for another serving?”

“Oh, I’m not hungry.”

He held up his pillaged dinner roll. “Really?” She scowled at him and offered the soggy bit of bread she had left. He waved her off. “Ugh. Keep it.” She grinned and dipped it into the bowl again. 

She nursed her new tankard of ale and let him eat in peace after that, a companionable silence that felt to him a complete and pleasing shape, one that didn’t beg to be broken. There were so few people who knew the trick of simply being. He sighed, happy to know another. She elbowed him lightly, but when he glanced over, she seemed lost in thought. The bard picked a mournful song from his lute, and her shoulders had dropped, just a fraction. The music had taken her to some grey shore, one he was loathe to leave her on. He clicked his tankard on hers when he was done, and she fixed him with the full weight of her gaze.

“We’ll never find him now, will we.” Her voice was soft, full of regret.

Varric knew who she meant. The white lily killer, who left a vase of cut flowers when he took a life. “The trail will be very cold when we return.”

“Void take him, we were so close. And all those righteous templars, ‘Oh just another missing woman, they go missing all the time, la dee dah…’ if it were men missing they’d have turned the streets upside down. Women, though, so flighty, so unpredictable.” She rubbed her face. “What did we miss, Varric?”

He gently pulled her hands down. She chewed her lip, somewhere far away. Likely back in the foundry where they’d found the bag and its grisly contents, human bones and a ring, still on the hand that had worn it in life. “You did everything you could, Hawke. More than most.” She flinched away, to the side, down. He cupped her cheek to bring her back. She looked at him and pressed ever so slightly into his palm. He hated how this one foul act had ridden her, flogged her to search every dark, stinking corner in his dark, stinking city, tailed her even here, to this place of warmth and safety. “I wish I could tie it up with a bow like in my stories, beautiful, but we both know life in Kirkwall’s no fairytale. Even when we do our best… sometimes, the bad guy gets away.” 

She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “Nothing I could do about it now, anyway. Maker’s breath, the only reason Beth’s not in the Circle right now, and I’m not dead or in jail, is thanks to you.” She tried for a rueful grin, but her lips twisted into a deeper frown. “And here I am, showing my gratitude like a champ.”

He stroked his thumb down her cheek. “Just keeping an eye on my investments,” he lied, wondering if she would divine the truth from the warmth in his palm, in his gaze, “no gratitude necessary.” He swept his thumb back slowly, fighting a sudden paralysis as her eyes flicked to his lips, and his lips remembered the weight of hers under weak Lowtown lamplight.

The bard broke a string, and the spell with it. His hand dropped to the table and she turned, closed away. 

“I should join Beth upstairs,” she said. “Early net gets the shoals and all.”

Varric nodded. “Duster’s about dried out, but these boots will need a full night by the fire before they’re safe for civilized gatherings.”

Hawke grunted. “You didn’t tell me the expedition was going to be civilized. I only packed my barbarian thong and fur armor.”

He snorted into his drink. “Wear that in the Deep Roads, you’ll have dwarves praising the Maker in your honor.”

She bumped him with her hip as she stood. “Dwarves, plural?”

He bumped her back. “Dwarf singular, for certain.”

“I look forward to hearing this praise, serah.” She gave him her lazy salute. “Until morning.”

He watched her climb the stairs. “Until morning,” he whispered.

They saw each other before morning. 

Varric was wakened by a soft, insistent knocking at his door several hours later. He checked the time, that strange hour that is either very late, or very early depending on one’s habits. He slipped from the bed to pad on silent feet to the door. 

“Varric,” she hissed.

“Hawke?” he replied, opening the door. “What are you doing here?”

She slipped in the moment it was wide enough to admit her. “Nightmare. Didn’t want to wake Beth, she’s finally asleep.” She looked around the room, blinking in the low firelight. “Andraste’s pink arse, Varric, kept the good rooms for yourself, huh?”

He chuckled. “A man has his wants. So, what can I do for you, Hawke? Nightcap? Bedtime story?”

She folded in on herself, nervous. “Er, well... I’m sorry, I, ah, really didn’t think this through. This is embarrassing. I’ll… I’ll go.” She turned to leave. He caught her wrist.

“Wait.” She waited. “Really, what did you come here for?” She hesitated. He swallowed, every nerve screeching in anticipation of… what?

“Mm… my mom. When I have a bad dream, one of the really bad ones?” She pulled her wrist back to grasp it with her other hand. “She, um… oh! Maker damn me for a coward! It’s only a bad dream.” She exhaled noisily. “My mom, when I can’t shake the nightmare, she sits on my cot and rubs my back. Beth doesn’t know—”

Varric pried her hands apart to take them in his own. “Sunshine is a mage, Hawke. She’s been trained all her life to dream carefully and resist what comes.” He stroked the back of her hands. “Was it the women?”

She swallowed. Nodded. “Ninette. She found her hand and choked me with it. Her eyes… her eyes were gone, but they burned—” Hawke shuddered, stiff in his hands.

“Hey, hey.” He squeezed gently, holding her fingers until they stilled. “You don’t need to tell me if that makes it worse.”

She sniffled, but she didn’t say more. He led her to his bed, slowly to let his own shaky breath smooth over. She was dressed in a loose, long sleeved tunic with leggings below. He watched her body under the cloth in the corner of his eye, the peaks of her unbound breasts moving with a softness he’d forgotten to expect, the lithe slide of her thighs as she followed him. He willed his burgeoning erection to soften. She’d come to him in a naked trust, strange and uneasy in her vulnerability. He’d volunteer to be torn apart by baby nugs in an Orzammar mushroom farm before he gave her a reason to think it misplaced.

She laid down and rolled over immediately, giving him her back. He laid on his side facing her, watching her body rise and fall with each breath. He put a hand on her shoulder and it tensed under his palm, the ropy muscles pulling tight on sharp bone. He hummed a low negative, _hm-m,_ and pressed his thumb into the muscle below her shoulder blade, knowing what he’d find there. He worked her knotted back with a pressure both gentle and deep, satisfaction filling his chest as she sighed with each little release. His own body relaxed as they lay together, the screeching nerves soothed by this, almost sacred duty she’d given him. A funny sort of pride pinked his cheeks. The mighty Hawke, terror of Lowtown, had a bad dream and came to him for comfort.

Her breathing slowed and her body slackened, and Varric stilled his hand. He looked at it like a stranger. That hand had learned those tricks on someone else’s back. Golden locks flashed before him, bright blue eyes in a sharp, lovely face. He took his hand from Hawke’s body to clench it against his own. Ancestors damn him, she’d left him so many times. She’d left him in these rooms, left him at the docks... so, why? Why did _this_ feel unfaithful?

He rolled over, throwing the frost rimed wall between himself and the world. _Between us and the world._ It was always them against the world. Them against the Merchant’s Guild, them against her family, them against her husband and his family and all the Maker damned kalna clans who just wouldn’t let them _be._ He took the familiar, hard pride and splintered glass anger and held it close to his chest. This was his dedication. This was his faith. 

This was love, wasn’t it? A stone in his gut that scorched when she was near, so blazing hot he felt like he could die. A stone that grew cold and heavy when she was not, which made him feel like he would.

He fell asleep wrapped in its icy, relentless embrace, as he had so many nights before.

He woke, fuzzy and slow, to a very different sort of embrace. Warm breath stirred the hairs on the nape of his neck, exhale. The swell of breasts ghosted on his back with each cool interlude, inhale. A long arm draped over his side, trailing slender fingers in the sheet _exhale_ and on his chest. The heat of her belly warmed _inhale_ his back, and her legs were tucked loosely against his, so the hinge _exhale_ of her hips followed the curve of his own. Instinct pulled him toward her, a subtle arching of his back, the downward drift of one hand to meet the other. A hitch in her breath shocked him into full consciousness. _She isn’t her._

Slowly, painstakingly, he dropped his shoulder and edged away. He slithered from under the cage of her arm, and her sleeping hand traced the breadth of his stomach to send rills of warmth lapping across his skin. He pushed himself up and away from her, thinking he might rise and ready himself for the long journey ahead. 

The cool pinch of air on his skin and the inky sweep of lashes against her cheek made him hesitate. The curve of her lips, the fall of her hair, the geometry of bone and muscle under skin, the form of her body under linen and sleep held him in thrall. He sank back down on the mattress and slid an arm under the pillow. He studied her at rest in the weak, watery light of a grey dawn. That strange hollow emptied his chest and filled it with light. He sucked in a giddy breath, but the light could not be chased by something so solid as air. It only grew, tightening his fingers in the sheets, pricking his eyes with damp. She slept on, unaware. He paged through memories for a name to this, this thing that held him. Nothing fit. It wasn’t duty, though duty had started it. Nor was it anguish, for though there was pain, it didn’t hurt. Too bright for melancholy, too soft for rage, and larger, far larger than both. Was this…?

No. He knew what that felt like. When he was young it was blood ties and expectations, the duty of the younger son, the stink of cheap wine in a goodnight kiss. Later it was fire burning, stoked to white fury by the crush of never enough stolen moments and the mortal fear of being caught. It was the bile-bitter sick twist each time she left. She always left, always chose clan over him. He would drink and write and write and despair, until her letter came. A letter always came, and it would breathe life back into the embers. Beginning, middle, end… again, again, and again.

She isn’t her. It can’t be that.

While he tumbled his thoughts to a mirror polish, his fingers crept across the expanse of crumpled sheets on their own. He was as surprised as she when his touch woke her, and they both looked at his broad hand clasped in hers with deep confusion. He let go first, sliding his traitorous palm roughly to him as if to chastise it. Hawke pulled hers to her chest, fingers closed over her own palm like it held a secret. She wrinkled her nose at him.

“Got off easy if a bit of hand holding is all I did last night,” she said, voice thick with sleep. “Dog was the only one who didn’t mind my thrashing as a kid, but he’s been dead for, Maker, almost ten years now.”

Varric chuckled. “You could have led with that, Hawke. I’d have kicked you out with a clear conscience had I known how hard you use your bedmates.”

She shrugged. “Secret’s out now. Don’t tell Anders, he’s my next mark.”

He snorted. “Sure that’s a bear you want to poke?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You don’t see the way he looks at you?”

“Nooo,” she narrowed her eyes. “But you have. Just how does our Warden look at me?”

Varric rolled to his back and threw an arm over his face. “He looks at you like a man dying of thirst, meeting the queen of water nymphs.” Like he worships the air you breathe and the dust you tread. 

“Go on,” she said.

“He gazes after you like water reflecting the moon.” Like he would fall to your feet at a word. 

“And?” She was enjoying this.

“He looks at you like a beggar at the feast. Like a garden of crocuses greeting the spring sun.” Like he would moan against your lips and tremble under your hand. 

“So, you’re saying he fancies me.”

He laughed. It was bitter. “Yes, Hawke, he fancies you quite a lot.” 

She was quiet. He let the silence spool out over painful seconds with the weight of his arm pressing against his eyes, teasing his train of thought for the moment it turned sour. He could feel her make a close study of him, his words, his gestures. Fine. Maybe she would see what he couldn’t.

“Double edged secrets, Tethras,” she said at last. “Surprising how much that one cost you.” He grunted. She hummed, thoughtful. “I’ll keep my bear poker stowed. Thanks for the warning.”

“My pleasure.”

“It was, wasn’t it.”

He glared at her from under his arm. Her eyes sparkled with cunning, and he was reminded that while the fool was her favorite mask, it was only one of many. He quailed under that noon-bright gaze. Rather than face her, he finally threw the covers down and rolled off the bed. 

“I’ll have them start breakfast,” he said, pulling fresh trousers over his soft leggings. “Bartrand will be up and tearing into someone by now, which gives us just over two hours before we need to leave for the meeting point.”

Hawke swung her legs down and stretched. Varric looked up just in time to see the silhouette of her body in the gathering sun, her linens diaphanous as dragonfly wings. He froze as his eyes devoured the curve of muscle in her shoulder, the arc in the hollow of her spine, the pebbled nipple crowning the fullness of her breast. She relaxed and he was released, though his shaking hands made tying his laces impossible. He gave up on his complicated release knot and settled for a quick overhand, and turned to the door. She was already there, legs folded beneath her, waiting for him. He cocked an eyebrow.

“I won’t forget this,” she said. “You may be a liar and an awful cheat at cards, but I wouldn’t trust anyone else with, well, with that. Last night.”

Varric stepped toward her. He towered over her when she sat like this, and he could see how her eyes darkened when he drew near. He took her shoulder and guided her to her knees. “See that you don’t,” he said gravely, “or I’ll tell ‘Bela you fart in your sleep.”

She squawked and lightly slapped his chest with an open hand, her face twisted in good-natured outrage. “A lady!” She slapped him again. “Never!” Pushed his shoulder. “Farts in her—”

She drew back to slap him a third time. He caught her hands and caught her lips, answering her offensive with his own. She froze for half a breath before melting into him, the resistant strength of her arms softening into his hold, the false fury in her lips giving way to his kiss. He released her hands to cup her face, to slide one hand to the nape of her neck, the base of her skull. He drew back to kiss her again. He tilted his head and kissed the other side, to compare sweetnesses. Her hands slid up the red tunic to flow over his arms, clever fingers pressing into the valleys, charting the swells, greedy for more of him. He gave. He wanted her to have it all. 

Her tongue flicked across the seam of his lips. Here, he hesitated. Their mouths were thick with sleep, unpleasant on the best of days. Her tongue flicked again, and his reservation fell away. He parted his lips for her. Her breath hitched and pressed her breasts against him, pooling heat in his groin and drawing a soft moan from his throat. She deepened the kiss, leading his tongue on a dance as her hand fell from his shoulder to his chest. Her fingers dug into him, her breath shaking as he broke away to nip softly along her jaw. The hand on his chest circled to his back, pressing him closer. He reached her neck. One hand brushed short, dark hair from her dusky skin while the other drew long, slow circles into the small of her back. She shuddered when he put his mouth against her, gasped when his erection pressed on her belly. He breathed her in, rose and sweet bay in her hair, leather oil on her skin, and beneath it all, the salty, acidic scent of her arousal. It nearly undid him. He thrust against her, the heat and friction almost unbearable. She dug her nails into his back when he retreated, demanding more. Instead he found her lips and devoured them, tangling his tongue in hers while the hand on her back drifted lower, lower, until his fingers ghosted over the cleft of her ass. 

She drew her leg up to his side to catch him still closer against her. He gripped her thigh and thrust again, slow and hard, tight on the mound of her center, angling for the softness below. She shuddered and broke away to cling to him, boneless and malleable. He shifted his thigh to rest between hers. Her hips rolled against him and he held them fiercely, urging her on. Her sex was all he could smell now, round and warm and wet. He groaned at the thought of her soaking the smallclothes and leggings, soft and open and all for him. It was too much.

He staggered back, fumbling with the closure of his trousers. His cock strained against the thick suede, foiling its own desires. The laces were horribly tangled from the overhand knot, and damp with his own excitement besides. He looked around for a dagger, a pocket knife, a blade of any kind, but what he found was Hawke.

She stared at him, the skin around her lips rough and red from his stubble, sweat beading on her chest, breath hard in her lungs. She stared at him, but mostly, she was staring at his trousers. It was enough to bring him back, enough to fall into the game of Guess What Hawke Is Thinking. She was guileless for the moment, her unguarded expression falling somewhere between hunger and confusion. Either she was trying to undo his tangled laces with her eyes, or…

“Hawke?” She looked up. He grinned. “First time with a dwarf?”

She looked back down. “Are you all so… girthy?”

He rubbed the back of his neck as the subject of their suddenly awkward conversation wilted. “It’s been a minute since I entered a cock measuring contest, but sure, circumference tends to be the greater of the two.”

“…two?”

“Measurements.”

She watched his pants deflate. “Ah.” She blinked. “Oh! Shit! Shit shit shit, I just ruined this, didn’t I. Ohh, shit!” She sat heavily back on her heels, face in her hands. “Varric,” muffled, “I’m a bad person.”

He pulled one of the laces, and the tangle fell apart. He huffed, wry and rueful that it was so easy in the end, fractionally thankful his clothing malfunction had thwarted this… highly inadvisable liaison. He tied them properly before going to Hawke. He knelt down beside her and for the second time in less than a full day, gently pried her hands from her face. His breath caught to see her. She looked ravished and ravishing, and he felt a pang of regret that he wouldn’t get to finish the job. 

“Don’t be stupid, Hawke. You’re one of the best people I know. Anyway, you didn’t ruin anything I hadn’t already destroyed with these awful trousers.” She snorted. “Leave it to the Orlesians to find a way to fuck up taking your pants off.” She laughed at that, and he remembered how to breathe. “Listen.” She looked up at him. He took a deep breath, trying to get the words just right. “Listen, Hawke, I’m… I’m flattered, that you would even consider bumping uglies with me,” he waited for her to finish rolling her eyes, “but I’m really not in a good place…” she looked ready to take offense, so he held up a hand. “True, true story.” She blinked, surprised to hear him say those words. “I swear it, Hawke. I can’t give you what you want. I have—”

“Bianca,” she said.

“My crossbow?” he deflected.

She looked at him. Looked through him. “I dropped by one day, but you weren’t there. One of her letters was on the table.” His eyes grew cold. She shook her head. “I didn’t read it. Just saw the signature. Recognized her writing from stamping on the Davri seed drills. Doesn’t take a genius, anyway. ‘There’s always Bianca… Bianca you minx, that was beautiful! Bianca sweetie, introduce yourself.’ Crossbow, letter, speech patterns.” She focused on him again, soft and sad. “Do you love her?”

“Yes.” No. He didn’t know anymore.

“Does she love you?”

He made a noise that might have been a laugh, or might have been a sob. It stuck in his throat. “As best she can.”

Hawke took her hands from his. “Well.” She studied them. “Thank the Maker for Orlesians and their stupid trousers.” 

She got up to leave. He stepped between her and the door. She huffed with impatience, _what now_ in the shrug of her shoulders and the tilt of her head. 

“Are you… are we okay?” he asked.

She lifted her shoulders and let them drop. “Yeah. Just, forget I came by last night. None of this ever happened. I’ll climb Anders like a tree when we get back and we’ll live in my old family estate and have a houseful of little abominable blue babies in a couple years.”

“I don’t think that’s how it wo—”

“Shut up, Varric.” Her voice was a slap. “I blighting well know that’s not how it works, but maybe he won’t be so fucking presumptuous, as to _insinuate_ that he knows what I _want,_ better than I do.” 

His mouth hung open. He’d done that, hadn’t he. He closed his lips and stepped aside. She left with none of the anger he’d expected, and it stung worse than if she’d slammed the door on his hand. He looked down. He’d need new trousers. The ones he wore stank of cowardice and regret.

…

The storm had blown over. Varric watched from the bed as yellow dawn curled tentative fingers through the sky. Today was the day he’d be forced to relive the Deep Roads, forced to watch his brother walk away, to watch Sunshine’s light flicker and fade. He held the memory of their stay at the inn close, girding his heart with its precious strength. That was the beginning of an end, and the end of a beginning, and nothing would be the same afterward. Daylight knifed through the window, but he decided to miss it this time. He sank into the covers, and fell asleep.


	6. A Surface Dwarf Goes to the Stone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I wasn't going to use brontos so much, as they're a bit distracting because what the hell is a bronto? [This](https://vignette.wikia.nocookie.net/dragonage/images/8/8e/Legacy-05-bronto_domestic-p.jpg/revision/latest?cb=20190706111800) is a bronto. Aaaaaadorbs.

She’d sent the boy with a bottle of amber rye that night. He stared at it in his hand, bleary. There was a proper glass somewhere, damned if he knew where. He pulled straight from the bottle and savored the burn it left down his throat. He’d downed three bottles like this over two sleepless days the last time he’d revisited their journey to the ancient thaig. 

He told her the story in the book. The face-off with Leandra in the square, the triumphant exeunt from Hightown. The Seeker was a noble. She wouldn’t have understood the truth. Heroes didn’t slink through the slums under cover of darkness. They didn’t emerge from a fetid drain, blinking and scared in the darkness beyond Kirktown’s walls. He went straight to the action. She wasn’t interested in the kinder parts, the gentle slope downward into the abyss. He sank into those memories as a cat curls in the sun.

…

Their caravan was a messy, ponderous thing. Bartrand kept him running, sorting supplies and men, rounding up stragglers when they moved. Varric was terrifically grateful he’d brought the little bay mare from Kirkwall, even if it meant he was always the first one tasked with running messages from the front of the expedition to the rear and back again. Their destination was less than an afternoon’s journey for a normal party, but the pure, uncut fuckery of their group made for slow going. Mud caked everything and everyone, and it brought them to a screeching halt at nearly every rutted crossing. Between running after loose oxen and brontos and calling for the boards at yet another muddy ditch, he had no time to think about his disastrous morning with Hawke.

The sun rested on the horizon when they reached the entrance to the Deep Roads. It was grand and crumbling, cleverly hidden from the nearest surface road. They split into two groups, Bartrand and a small, elite band of dwarves to open the way, Varric and the rest to break a hasty camp. Fires were built and the chickens slaughtered that morning were spitted over them, while runners scouted for dry ground to spread the company’s bedrolls. Varric drew alongside his brother’s camp only after all the others had been set. He rested his hand on the pommel of his saddle. The little horse stopped and shook her head, tired from the day but still game enough. He slid from her and landed with a groan as his thighs and buttocks cried out from their long day of abuse. Bartrand raised his hands in a slow clap as Varric handed the reins to a wrangler and hobbled to the fireside. 

“Horseback’s no place for a dwarf, brother, but I’d bet five sovereigns and a mushroom pie your arse is telling you better than I ever could.” 

Varric looked pointedly at the filth that covered his brother’s boots and breeches. “Maybe I prefer a sore ass to having the lower half of my body caked in shit.”

He slapped at it. “Honest dirt, brother. You’ll be down with us tomorrow regardless. The horse stays above.”

Varric nodded. He’d hired a stable boy to join them as far as the entrance to the Deep Roads, then return with the mare to the Songs when they went below. The horse wasn’t likely to see the light of day again if she joined them. He took a bowl and a chicken from the spit, and waved to one of the attendants for a mug of beer. “Chicken and beer, Bartrand? Will every camp be so well appointed?”

Bartrand glowered. “This was to be our first meal below the earth, not the last one above.” He shrugged. “Chickens would have spoiled before tomorrow, though.”

Varric broke the carcass apart, cursing lightly when boiling juices landed on his skin. He sucked the drippings from his wrist and shook a short, fat leg free. He wondered where Hawke’s party had landed, if they had spitted chickens over a fire as warm as this, if someone had brought along a dusty bottle of whiskey or port. He’d caught glimpses of them throughout the day, a self-contained company of three bobbing heads, two staves, two daggers, and one perfectly frigid shoulder. Grease ran down his chin as he tore into the roasted meat. He was well past trying to impress anyone today. He let it drip.

Bartrand studied him as he savaged his meal. The fire crackled merrily, the only break in their taut silence. His stomach soured in the quiet, and he pushed the half-eaten carcass away. An embroidered hand towel appeared before him. Varric took it and wiped himself methodically, and wondered when his next chance for a proper bath would be. His brother’s eyes picked him apart, bright with curiosity. He handed the towel back to the attendant, picked up his freshened ale, and met Bartrand’s calculating stare.

“What.”

Bartrand grimaced. “Awfully peaceful tonight, baby brother. Did she finally cut that wagging tongue from your head?”

“Who?” He knew who.

“You know who. She’s the only one who could ever silence your blather.” The muscle at his temple popped. “By the Stone, Varric, if you’ve seen her again—”

Varric scoffed. “I haven’t seen her in years.” He had a stack of letters, many returned, to prove it. His eyes rested in the fire, his mind a thousand leagues away.

Bartrand grunted as he got to his feet. “Fine, hoard your troubles. Ancestors know I have enough of my own with this blighted company.” Varric stared into the fire. “Hey.” Bartrand’s voice was soft. It was enough to tear Varric away from his thoughts. He looked up. “I have camp laid out a little way down. There’s good bedrolls, heat from the vents, a roof over your head, and a watch against the darkspawn. There’s a place for you, if you want it.” 

Varric’s attention returned to the flames. “Thanks. Might take you up on that in a bit.” 

Bartrand grunted and left for the tunnel’s entrance.Varric drained his tankard and held it out for a refill. He was obliged. He set the ale down, drew his knees up, and lost himself in the fire. Bartrand was a bastard, but he was the only family he had left. He was the only one who’d seen him through everything, good, bad, and brink of clan war ugly. He was wrong about Bianca being the only force in Thedas that could silence him, though. Why there was… well, there certainly was… or there was always…

Well, shit. 

There was the time Hawke had come to him needing help, and she’d knelt at his feet, and he’d mapped the dark freckles on her cheeks. There certainly was the night she’d lanced him with her knowing gaze and asked point blank about Bianca, and a well of loss had opened beneath him. There was always the time she’d bound his wound with a scrap of her shirt, and he’d seen the name of desire written in her skin. 

He poured himself into the fire, submerging his consciousness in the licking flame, willing the petty grumbles and growls and pains of his mortal flesh to subside, to convert to twisting, consuming heat as he grappled with the beast of this new understanding. 

Hawke, who would kneel to look into his eyes. Who had shortened her stride to match his on the first day and every day after. Who would stay with him late into the night, after everyone else had gone home, after her sister had passed out on his red coverlet. Hawke, who teased and flirted, who toasted and joked, who made him feel like he was the only man in the world. Hawke, who had answered his kiss with gleeful abandon; who trembled in his arms like a hare and clawed his back like a lion.

He’d fallen for Hawke.

Hawke, whom he had only that morning spurned. 

The fire roared. He ran rough fingers through his hair, tearing the leather tie away. He threw it into the flames and watched it curl in the fierce heat, catching dull red, twisting as it burned. His hair fell around his face, sticking to the light sheen of sweat at his brow. He tossed it back and reached for his ale, and cursed the man who would understand the sublime only after he’d destroyed it. He drained half the tankard in one go. An attendant moved to fill it, but Varric waved him off. He was afraid of what he might do with too much drink. He downed the other half and smashed the heavy clay tankard in the fire. The dregs sizzled foully in the flames. He breathed them in, welcoming the sharp sting, the burn of steam in his lungs. It was less than he deserved. 

He wanted to go to her. Wanted to call for the horse he’d taken that morning only to avoid her, wanted to ride out among the camps and find her and throw himself at her feet. 

Not that it would change anything. He bit down on the memory, the lean on _she_ when Hawke asked, _does she love you?_ Does she, as I do. He heard it now, now that it was too late. He chafed his skin raw with the hurt in her eyes when he had the unbelievable gall to ask if they were _okay._ He lashed himself with the rage in her one demand this morning, his silence. He salted all these wounds in her indifference when she left.

Of course she’d been indifferent. Of course she would gather her bruised heart and walk away. Him? He was nothing, a minor disappointment in a life full of gut-wrenching loss. 

He rubbed his face in his palms. Varric Tethras, renowned author and minor disappointment. He’d have that written on his headstone. He broke up his little pity party with a harsh laugh. The Deep Roads waited. If this thaig was half the trove his brother claimed, Hawke would be a noblewoman the moment she reclaimed her estate and the family name. What use would a human noble have for a Lowtown surface dwarf?

The entrance yawned before him. One of his brother’s expensive bedrolls in the warmth of the tunnel did sound appealing. He looked up at the stars, and was struck by the realization that he didn’t know when he’d see them again. He brought out his own bedroll and laid it beside the fire. He looked up. His brother had come to the surface with a mortal fear of falling up into the sky, but Varric had never shared it. The ache of unrequited longing settled cold fingers into the well-worn grooves of his heart, and he fell willingly into the night.

They broke camp early the next morning. Varric’s muscles complained as he pulled his outer clothes back on and stowed his bedroll, and he swore off horses for the foreseeable future. Nothing he put between his legs should make him ache so long without getting him off first. The rest of their crew was likewise rising and stretching, brewing coffee and frying salt pork over the hot coals. One of Bartrand’s attendants had remained, and he’d readied coffee, fried ham, and toast the moment Varric stirred. He nodded thanks to the young man, loose hair falling into his eyes, and sat against a large spoked wheel to break his fast. The sun peeked over the trees. He closed his eyes to turn his face to it, to bask in the weak, warm rays of his final topside hours. 

Sun-touched. Separate. Child of nowhere. He embraced it. Drew his peculiar strength from it. A child of nowhere can move unhindered, can clear the haze and pull of the past from his eyes. A child of nowhere can be ruthless or kind, he can grease a palm or slit a throat, and answer to no caste or clan. Varric filled his chest with the free air. The child of nowhere belonged only to himself. Two was complicated, a clan was a trap. One was Varric, and he liked it like that.

He cleaned his plate and left it for the kid, filled a hot flask with coffee and whiskey, and set off to whip the camp back into a caravan. Early risers packed and ready were saluted and shown to new duties, and no laggards yet abed went unkicked. He walked the full circuit of their camp, until he came to a low rise crowned by a stand of silver birch trees. The mages sat with their heads together at the small fire, fingertips aglow with some piece of magic. Hawke stood with her back to them, eyes closed, arms crossed, facing full into the dawn. Her features were slack, her breath even and deep. Something cracked in his chest to see her like that. He knew how it could feel. 

Sunshine and Blondie noticed him and waved him over. He called out instead.

“Sleep well last night?”

Hawke stiffened at his voice, but didn’t open her eyes. Sunshine answered.

“We’re mages, Varric. There wasn’t a camp warmer or better protected than ours.”

Blondie snapped the magic from his fingers. “We saved you a cup of whiskey last night, thinking you’d drop by. Did your brother keep you running ‘til you fell down? And, Andraste’s tits, Varric, what happened to your _hair?_”

Varric swallowed the stab of guilt with a laugh. “Lost my tie last night.”

Bethany smiled. “You look younger with it down. It’s nice.”

He ran his fingers through the loose strands. “Not sure younger is a look I ought to pursue, Sunshine. Ready to move?”

Sunshine and Blondie both looked to Hawke. Hawke wasn’t here right now. They shrugged and nodded, then rose to slap the dust from their robes. He waved to them, and turned to jog down the hill.

Rather than count the many ways in which he’d managed to fuck things up, he threw himself into preparing the caravan. He yoked oxen and brontos with the wranglers, loaded barrels of salt pork and apples into the chuck carts, paired gloves and coiled ropes and slapped sheets of dried mud from the hard wagon wheels. 

Bartrand emerged from the tunnel and was greeted by a full Deep Roads expedition, ready and waiting on his order. He looked at his baby brother with something almost like respect, nodded once, and gave the call to move out. Oxen strained, boots shuffled, and Varric stepped aside to watch from a small rise as shade from the ruined bas relief walls consumed their company. Dwarf and human, beast and cloth, the line between light and shadow fell over them all. He saw them pass under the walls, sable, blond, black, three abreast, aloof and alert. He watched as the mages dipped their heads in a short confidence, as they glanced furtively in Hawke’s direction. He watched Hawke notice and shrug off their concern, so subtle that her companions didn’t notice. 

He did. He cursed himself again for a fool. “Just keeping an eye on my investments,” he muttered under his breath, “sure, that’s why you know every mood and read each fleeting gesture. That’s why you studied her so often and so close. Blighted idiot.”

The rest of the caravan moved in a blur when they passed from sight. The heavy equipment brought up the rear and brushed against the highest arch, sending a scuff of dust down when it hit the crumbling stone. Varric hopped down from his perch and joined them, just another dwarf on the Deep Roads. He expected a thrill of recognition, or perhaps a shiver of dread, as he walked the stone floor that sloped ever so slightly downward, but he felt… nothing. It was a relief in a way, a confirmation that he was but a man, and the road but a road, and though there may be horrors ahead, they were the normal, workday horrors he’d seen a thousand times before. 

They traveled on, the way lit by undying torches, and the air warmed with the sulfurous breath of the vents. Someone struck up a walking song, and soon nearly all the company sang to the rhythm of their feet on stone as the dwarva had for untold generations. Varric did not sing, though he found his own stride falling into the measure, his own heart marking the beat of their voices. _Child of nowhere,_ his mind countered, while his body went right on falling in line, heedless to his resistance. Then the song changed, and the memory of his mother’s voice struck him like a physical blow. He lifted his voice to join the rest.

_Light of earth, warmth from stone,_  
_Who is there to take me home?_  
_Weight of ore, song of clay,_  
_Who be left to guide my way?_

_To clan and kin,_  
_To hearth and home,_  
_We bear the mark of them below._

_Bite of blue, hands of glass,_  
_We sing the songs of those who passed._  
_Shard of magic, cold the drawing,_  
_We sing the songs of elders’ warning._

_To clan and kin,_  
_To hearth and home,_  
_We bear the mark of them below._

_Light beneath, mother’s wound,_  
_The way is hard, the shadows move._  
_The Stone will whisper, a path she’ll lay,_  
_To guide the worthy along their way._

_To clan and kin,_  
_To hearth and home,_  
_We bear the mark of them below._

Varric drew a ragged breath. Maker damn the cursed alchemy that weighted the tune to burst his chest and make him a mewling, milk-stupid child again. He looked around as he wiped his eyes, realized his feet had carried him forward while his throat diminished him. He’d left the earth movers and their dwarves behind and walked with the guards now, their metal and leather gleaming dully in the low light of the caverns. The songleader began a new one, some call and response number that held no power over him. Instead he opened his ears for a whisper, a laugh, anything that would tell him—

“You sure she’s alright, Bethany?”

Blondie. Just more than a whisper. Somewhere ahead on his left. He drifted toward them.

“She gets like this sometimes. Mother didn’t take it well, the night we left.”

A sigh. “You’re lucky to have a mother worrying after you. But, didn’t she see the templars outside your door?”

“They were the only reason she gave even a reluctant blessing. Oh Anders, she was so angry with Hawke. Blamed her for the templars’ interest. As if it was her fault I was so careless!” 

She sniffled. Varric could see them now, walking on the outskirts of the caravan. Blondie looked taller somehow, broader. Varric considered that perhaps he was more at home in the Deep Roads than he’d ever been in Kirkwall. He didn’t cringe and crumple his brow. He was not the meek and fearful hunted here but the hunter, confident and deadly. Varric had to admit, grudgingly, he could see the man’s appeal at last. Anders put his arm around Bethany’s shoulders.

“It’s not your fault either, Beth. The templars, the Circle, they’re to blame. Not you.” 

He stopped. She did as well, and looked at him. Varric stepped to the side and vanished into a deeper shadow. Oh, shit. Blondie took his arm from her shoulders and tilted her chin up with his other hand. Her breath hitched in her chest, and Anders leaned down to press a chaste kiss to her lips. 

Oh, _shit._

She kissed back, wrapping him in her arms. His fingers drifted up to play in her black hair, tangling in the inky strands and pulling lightly. She gasped and her lips curled in a smile, and her own fingers crackled sparks on his shoulders. Anders groaned and pulled away to gaze on her, and Varric saw a frantic devotion in his face that set off more alarms than he could count. Normal men did stupid, dangerous things for that kind of love, and their spirit-ridden apostate was leagues away from normal.

Varric edged away, keeping to the shadows. He had to find Hawke, had to tell her… what? Her sister was dallying with an unstable man? It was impossible that she didn’t know already. That he’d gotten Blondie completely wrong, that it was Hawke’s younger, prettier sister he’d lusted after? May as well throw clear alcohol on a fire. He took a swig of tepid coffee, gears churning in his mind. He corked his flask, but when he went to tuck it into his belt, there was a resistance. 

He looked down, and nearly bit his tongue in two. A hand pressed against his mouth and dark, perfect lips hissed in his ear. 

“Not a sound, Varric. Not one, fucking, sound.” 

He shook his head, and she released him. She moved silently to his side, and they shared the darkness as her sister ran her pale fingers through the feathers on Anders’ armor, flirting and happy. He handed her his flask. She took it and drank deeply. She returned it, and he finished what little she left him before hooking it back on his belt. Hawke was tense beside him, taut as a pulled string but he couldn’t read the why of it in their deep shadow. They watched Anders lean down for another kiss, another trembling clutch at Bethany’s lithe, perfect frame. 

“Shit,” Varric whispered.

Hawke nodded. “Shit,” she breathed.

“Hawke I—”

She jabbed a sharp elbow into his side. He gagged on the cough that threatened to reveal them. Several painful breaths later, the two lovers broke apart to catch up to their place in the caravan. Varric looked around. He was back with the earth movers again, the brontos huffing in their deep chests as they hauled giant digging machines on their wagons. He slipped from the wall to join them. Hawke was there when he turned his head, silent on her padded boots. 

She looked down, amused. “You were saying?”

He paused. He didn’t know if this was forgiveness, but it was a vast improvement over the previous day’s stinging chill. He watched her gait, the swing of her long legs, deliberately shorter than was natural. He wondered if she even knew that she was doing it, that it meant as much to him as it did.

“I was saying, the Deep Roads look good on you, Hawke. Though, I am disappointed.”

“Why’s that?”

“I have a very clear memory of you saying you’d packed thong armor, and yet—”

“What, and have you eaten by darkspawn while you leer at my ass?” She smacked his shoulder. “Who’d watch my back then?”

He chuckled. This was good. This was almost normal. “So, Sunshine and Blondie?”

She smiled. “Yeah. They’ve been pining for weeks, but I guess they were worried about me. You should have seen them while we waited for you in the clinic. ‘I swear I’ll never hurt her, Hawke. I only have her best interests at heart, Hawke.’ Ha! He was adorable.”

Varric lifted an eyebrow. “So, when you said he was your next mark…”

Her smile faded. “I wanted to see what you’d say. Wanted to know what you’d seen.”

Realization dawned on him. “I saw a man in love…”

She watched him. She finished the sentence when he wouldn’t. “And you assumed he was in love with me.” She shrugged. “We see what we want to see.”

Because… no. He’d put a bolt in that possibility yesterday with his rough idiocy. They walked in a strained silence until the caravan stopped for their midday rest. 

“They’re probably done pawing each other by now,” Hawke said as the dwarves around them watered their brontos and sat down to a meal of bread, cheese, and hard sausages. “I’m going to catch up. Will you join us?”

He shook his head. “I should check in with Bartrand, get the plan for camp tonight. We’re still close enough to the surface the darkspawn won’t be much of a worry, but there’s plenty of other nasties down here that will happily make a meal of anyone stupid enough to step away from the group for a piss.”

Something flickered behind her eyes, but it was gone before he could read it. “Well. You know where to find us any time your brother loosens that leash.”

A hard grin curled his lip. “Say hi to the happy couple for me.”

It flickered again. He caught anger this time, and hurt. “I will,” she said, and her legs stretched to their full potential as they carried her away.

He took his meal with Bartrand, the same cheese and sausage as the rest of the crew, fortified with deep mushrooms one of the scouts had discovered in the tunnels ahead. They popped and spit in the pan, caramelizing to a golden brown in the butter. Varric wrinkled his nose. Deep mushrooms were more dwarfy bullshit he could never stomach. He wished he was further back in the ranks, dipping stale bread in butter with Hawke even if it meant trading more cruel jibes with her. 

He hated this new game, each daring the other to cut deeper, twist harder, but he didn’t know how to stop. She’d toyed with him, poked and prodded an unwitting confession from him. He’d taken the bait and spilled a truth he wasn’t willing to name, then come within moments of spilling himself into her as well. 

Again, he didn’t know whether to damn or praise the second their momentum had come crashing down. He felt stupid, manipulated, outsmarted and furious, but not at her. Not by her. 

Bartrand’s steely gaze rested uneasily on him. He was being too quiet again. Fuck. 

“So where are we in this blighted network, brother?”

Bartrand wasn’t fooled, but he snapped the maps he’d been holding and showed Varric their progress. He’d been serious when he said a week’s travel down, and who knew how much longer with the inevitable cave-ins and fallen bridges they were likely to encounter. Boulders could be cleared and bridges rebuilt, but both would take time. His brother wasn’t concerned. Packs of wild nugs could be hunted to stretch their rations, and the mushrooms would become more plentiful the further down they went. Fresh water crossed the road at regular intervals. The way Bartrand talked about it, the Deep Roads could keep them going indefinitely. 

Varric hated the way his brother’s eyes shone when he talked about staying underground for so long. The thought of being away from Kirkwall any longer than necessary made his teeth itch and his hair crawl. He looked at his watch.

“Bartrand, how long was this rest supposed to last?”

He checked the time, then jumped to his feet swearing. “Everyone up! Gold-sucking layabouts. You! On your feet. Move!”

The expedition staggered onward, sleepy and slow from their long rest in the caverns. Varric took a moment to appreciate the massive chamber they’d stopped in. The ceiling arched over them nearly fifty feet high and over a hundred wide, lit by the road’s icy blue torches, their own small lights, and the red river of lava far below. The walls had been smoothed and carved centuries ago, so long that new stalactites grew like needles from the ancestors’ beards. The greater columns had been allowed to stay, some amid the chamber, most near the walls. He studied the massive plinths of drip and pull, like water frozen in full cascade. The road stretched ahead, its treacherous curve picked out in the unearthly hue of undying flame. A haze hung in the air and made distance hard to judge. Was it a mile he could see into the tunnels, or only a few hundred yards? There was no way to know. All was lit with the blue of torch and the red of lava and there was no day or night, only the spinning hands on his watch, the road that spun out before and behind. He could feel his body settle into a new pattern. Walk, rest, walk, rest, sleep, wake, walk.

They passed through the cavern and returned to the tunnels. The tunnels themselves were only slightly less grand than the massive chambers they connected. Here the road was paved with shining obsidian, the walls tiled in mosaic. Every now and again there was a small pile near the edge. Sometimes fallen tiles, sometimes bones and rags. He chuckled quietly, wondering if Hawke was searching them for treasure.

Bartrand pressed them hard, refusing to stop again until his timepiece reached the supper hour. Sometime during what should have been the afternoon, Varric carried out a quiet revolt. He fell back to the chuck carts. Watered beer and bread rolls filled with seeds and dried fruit were passed around, and he plied the songleader with his flask, which he'd rinsed and filled with his brother's best whiskey. The old woman thanked him with a twinkle in her eye. She broke into a lively working song as he left, one about fields of grain and the wind that loved them. They walked on. The tunnel fell away to reveal a crystal cavern, shining and razor sharp. It receded in turn and was consumed by a patch of inky black where the undying torches had been shattered. They lit their own lanterns of yellow fire and pressed on. A scout returned with news of darkstalkers, heard and smelled, though not seen.

Bartrand called them to a halt at last. They’d come on a deserted fortress, carved from the stone. A curtain wall spanned the length of the cavern, the only entrance guarded by carved dwarven kings. One held a warhammer, the other a bow. Varric studied their huge, grim faces and took note of the number and size of the gouges they’d suffered under a thousand years of blight. A small party of fighters was sent to secure each wing. No sooner had they left, than half came running back.

“No good, no good,” a young man in cheap plate said. His eyes were wide, his breathing erratic. Varric leaned back and looked up into the fortress, curiosity piqued. 

“What’s up there?” he asked.

“No good, messere. Bodies. Rot. Taint. We stay, we’ll get it, too.”

Bartrand clenched his fists. “What, you’re afraid of a few dusty corpses? Toss them out! This is a good, defensible position, good honest stone.”

The warrior shook his head. “Can’t throw out the taint. They lived here. Fought here. Died here. Taint is everywhere, on the walls, slick on the floors. We can’t stay.”

Varric moved the kid out of Bartrand’s reach before his brother could swing. Shooting the messenger was a Tethras family tradition, but they didn’t need mercs nursing grudges this far below. The others came back with the same story. Taint covered every inch of the ancient dwarven fortress, black and oily. He turned to Bartrand.

“There’s a tunnel just past this chamber. We can stop there for the night. Post a watch on either side, keep the fires few and small. It’s not a castle, but I’ll take obsidian and mosaics over the taint any day.”

Bartrand looked longingly at the fortress, lingering on the proud statues who’d failed in their vigil so long ago. He dragged his eyes to the men before him, ex-soldiers, mercenaries, scrappers all. He searched their boots for signs of what they’d described, and Varric could almost hear his disappointment when he found it.

“Beards of my ancestors, get that shit out of here.” They did. He turned to the caravan. “We make camp in the next tunnel. First squadra, set up a watch to the fore. Fifth, your watch is behind. The rest of you, make no fires until you’re told. If I die of black lung before we reach the thaig, I will haunt every last one of you miserable bastards til you die, then I’ll haunt your snot-nosed children, and your grandchildren after them. Move out!”

They did, most eager to reach the tunnels and rest after the long trek, Varric eager for other reasons. Hawke’s party was in the first, along with four mercs he’d hand picked to suit her. His brother’s leash would stretch far enough to stay a while at their fire that night.

Varric stayed behind at the tunnel’s entrance when they reached it. Bartrand went ahead to measure the camp’s perimeter, and sent a call down the line when he was sure it would suit. Varric took a bundle of firewood and began tossing a single piece down at regular intervals. One for the rear watch, one for the earth movers, one for the chuck cart, two for the guardsmen, one for Bartrand, the rest for Hawke. Seven low fires soon burned merrily in the cleverly vented air, and those without their own gathered around them. Porters broke bread with fighters, miners shared flasks with builders, and once the evening meal had been cleared away, Varric went hopefully to Hawke’s forward position with a small cask of ale on his shoulder.

He found her resting on swept ground, leaning against the tunnel wall and staring into the fire. He heard a rustle, a faint giggle, and found two bedrolls laced into one on the opposite side of the road. He set his cask down at her side with a thump and sat atop it. 

“They’re wasting no time,” he said.

Hawke shook her head. “Beth never has.”

“Sunshine, really? She’s so… flusterable.”

“She’s more of a doer than a talker. Talk about sex casually, with an audience? Maker, she’ll blush up to her roots.” Varric chuckled. He was often the instigator when it came to making Sunshine blush. “She finds a man she likes, though. Well,” Hawke jutted her chin to the double bedroll. “They’ve been like that almost since you brought the wood by. Anders built the structure, Beth sparked the fire, and they hightailed it to that double roll before you could say public intercourse.”

Varric sputtered, laughing. “Good for her,” he said.

Hawke tilted her head to his makeshift chair. “Peace offering?” she asked.

Varric smacked it. “One sixtel of the finest contrition House Tethras has to offer,” he said. Her lips twitched in a faint smile. “And it gets you drunk.”

She chuckled. “Drunk on contrition. Must be heady stuff.”

He shrugged. “Goes down easier that way. Should I tap it now?”

“Tap it.”

He unhooked the tankards and tap from his belt. Hawke took the cups from him while he worked. He tapped the cask and held his hand out for the first tankard. They watched the ale flow, the liquid nearly black against its dense tan head. Hawke traded his full cup for her empty one, and she examined it closely.

“Dwarven black ale…” trepidation in her voice.

“Ancestors’ hairy tits, no! I’m going for remorse here, not revenge.” She snorted. He shook his head. “Dragon’s blood. Nevarran sugared ale.”

She sniffed it. “Malty and sweet at first? Bitter finish?” He nodded. “But there’s something almost spicy… fruity, too. Lemon peel?” 

“Just hops.”

She took a sip and rolled it on her tongue. He watched her closely from behind his own ale. At last she swallowed it. “Oh, _Maker,_” she moaned. A shiver raced down his spine, and he thanked whatever ancestors watching that she was too preoccupied to notice. “Apology accepted, Varric.” She sat back down against the wall, folding her long legs into tight peaks, and patted the ground next to her.

The iron bands that had tightened his chest since that awful morning at the inn melted away. He sank down beside her and clicked his tankard on hers. They drank deep, savoring the sweet, bitter burn of the precious ale. Bartrand would be furious when he looked for it later, but that was a problem for Future Varric. Present Varric regretted not one tiny part of nicking his brother’s best booze if it helped him smooth things over with Hawke. 

She ruffled his loose hair. “Beth’s right. Having your hair down does make you look younger.”

His scalp tingled at her touch. “All the more reason to raid my brother’s personal effects for a tie tonight,” he said roughly. “How do you like the others in your squadra?” he asked, changing the subject.

She shrugged. “They’re alright. Nice to have the two swordsmen, they’ll come in handy when it’s time to stab things. I’ll miss having you raining death from behind me, though. Your archers seem solid enough, but no one compares to Bianca.”

He winced at the hesitation in her voice when she said her name. _No bowman compares to Bianca. I don’t compare to Bianca._ He sighed. They both drank.

“No, no one does, and no one ever will.” Her head sank to her knees, dark hair swinging down to hide her face. “She was going to make us rich, until the Carta got involved. Can you imagine a Carta gang outfitted with ten of these?” He stroked the smooth grain of Bianca’s wooden stock, familiar to him as his own skin. He sighed. “No one should have this kind of power. Not even me.”

She tilted her head to look at him under her short locks. Her mouth smiled, but her eyes were sad. “Especially not you,” she said. 

He grunted, nodding. “I’d have gotten rid of her years ago if I knew what was good for me, but…”

She sat back, leaned her head on the wall. “But she’s a part of you, and it's hard to let go.” He hummed, and wondered exactly which Bianca either of them was talking about. She picked at her undershirt. “I wear my father’s tunics. At first it was necessity. I hit a growth spurt at fifteen and nothing else we had fit me. Then, he died, and… he didn’t need them anymore. Mom hates it, says it’s unflattering, improper—”

“They remind her of him. It hurts.”

She froze for a moment. He watched her realize how little of Leandra’s cruelty had to do with her; the cutting words a howl of widow’s grief, nothing more. She swallowed, hard. He took her hand before he could persuade himself not to. She twined their fingers together and squeezed. He let go only to pour another round, and the moment their hands were free again, she reached for his. 

“Thank you,” she whispered.

He stroked the back of her hand with his thumb. “I’m just an objective third party, beautiful. It’s hard to see the whole bronto when you have a face full of asshole.”

She laughed softly. “Words to live by.”

They passed the rest of the evening in comfortable silence. The other members of her squadra passed in and out, on their way to the front, on their way back. Beth and Blondie writhed in their bedroll, heedless of the hours that slouched toward second watch. 

Varric’s ass screamed for mercy, but he found his hand was quite unwilling to let go. He rolled his head toward Hawke. She dozed on his shoulder, warm and heavy. The guards on first watch returned and kicked Sunshine and Anders lightly. They squawked a muffled indignation, but relented and disentangled themselves. He stifled a laugh to see them so rumpled and flustered, though they wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t. They took up their staves, linked their arms, and strode out into the cold light of the tunnels.

Varric waved the returning swordsman over. Together they lifted Hawke off him and shuffled her to her bedroll. It was a pitiful sight, ragged and thin, crushed padding and a folded pillow. The human settled her legs and accepted a tankard of ale as he left for his own roll. A fierce, protective urge swelled in Varric when he drew the blanket up to her slack shoulders. She looked so small there, so vulnerable. He tucked the stubborn strand of hair behind her ear. She sighed and stirred, only to fall into a deeper sleep.

“One of these days I’ll ask what you want, Hawke,” he whispered. “I only hope I’m equal to the answer.”

He left for the plush bedroll at his brother’s fire. They’d survived the first day of their expedition. 

The next six days were much the same. The forward guard had a scuffle with darkstalkers on the third day, and a family of nugs flushed from an offshoot tunnel provided fresh meat on the fifth night. Cave-ins were cleared with painstaking care, and a short span was built when they came on a fallen bridge. Bartrand got his wish to stay in one of the ancient castles, its seal unbroken for centuries before they arrived. Inside were treasures that sparkled his eyes and hardened his heart, and he refused to let anyone but Varric and Hawke step foot inside. They made camp outside those curtain walls with the warrior and hunter watching over them. Stalkers made off with a hireling who went for a midnight piss, and he roused the whole camp with his dying screams. No one dared leave after that, so the edges of their camp reeked of urine and vomit by the time the morning meal was called. They broke their fast on the road.

That was morning on the seventh day. The day they lost the enchanter.

…

The bottle was empty. He threw it into the hearth, where it clunked dully on the stone. He barked a rough laugh. Bottles were much stronger than anyone gave them credit for. Or he was far more drunk than he realized. He sank back into the chair as a red haze enveloped him. The past dragged him down, and he was too weak to resist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting a day early cos it's cold as balls out there and I've been finished writing since Saturday and I keep editing and it's not gonna stop also I'm pretty happy with how it is now even though I don't have a beta so if something's misspelled or straight up missed or if you just liked it cos Varric is the best lemme know in the comments okaythanksbai.
> 
> PS. I paraphrase Maurice Sendak's book One Was Johnny down there. What's up, my childhood?


	7. The Way Is Blocked, the Way Is Narrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Canon-typical violence, description of an overdose and recovery.

“Sandal? Sandal!” 

The red haired dwarf’s shout rang off the walls and echoed through the chamber. Andraste’s flaming knickers, this day just kept getting better.

“Easy Bodahn,” Varric said, “what happened?”

“It’s Sandal!” he said, eyes wild. “He’s run off! Down one of these tunnels. Oh ancestors! Will you help me find him?”

Hawke laid a hand on Bodahn’s shoulder. “We’ll find him, Bodahn. I promise.”

Varric nodded. “We were heading that way anyhow. We’ll make sure he’s safe.”

Bodahn shook his head. “I’m not worried he’s harmed. By the Stone, that boy can take care of himself. But what if he’s lost? I can’t lose him, Varric.”

“We’ll get him turned in the right direction,” Varric said. “Meanwhile, I have to see a man about a horse. Hawke. Bodahn.” 

He nodded to them and turned to the mountain of stone blocking the road. The miners and earth movers chewed at the rubble, but the damage was great enough, and Bartrand impatient enough, that he’d told Varric to take a few men and look for a way around. Of course Hawke had volunteered for the job. She left to get the others.

Varric’s jaw clenched. His idiot brother had nearly broken the foreman’s jaw when he explained the extent of the cave-in. Now there were mutinous whispers in the mining ranks, and any dwarf worth his salt knew you didn’t upset them if you fancied breathing. He walked to the blocked road, hackles raised when the chatter cut short on his approach. He found the man pressing a rune of cold to his face.

“Brother,” he began.

“Don’t ‘brother’ me, Tethras,” the miner spat.

Varric held up his hands. “Alright alright, you deserve better than that. My only brother is a right bastard, and I’m here to make amends.” He was doing a lot of that lately. “A quarter cask of Valenta’s is being delivered to your camp as we speak. I’ve heard it does wonders for sore chins.”

The miners’ eyebrows raised in surprise, then fell in avarice. The man before him rubbed his jaw. “A quarter cask of Red, for a right hook to the face?” He turned to his people. “Hey boys, what do you think we’d get for a younger brother?”

They laughed without mirth. Varric laughed with them. “For me? Bartrand would thank you for taking me off his hands. He finds out I gave away his only cask of Red, though, he’ll thrash every one of us.” 

He turned to look back to his brother, and to give them a good look the short, vicious dagger at his shoulder, the chain peeking from under his duster, his infamous crossbow. They might be ex-mining caste and some of the toughest sons of bitches down here, but he was surface born, canny, and he had a higher body count than all of them combined. He could hear the shuffling behind him, the weighing of options. At last the man spoke.

“Alright boys, back to work.” Varric turned to him and took his outstretched hand. “We’ll drink to your continued good health tonight, Tethras.” The miner squeezed harder than necessary.

“Not too loudly, mind,” Varric said as he matched his grip. The miner let go with a new respect in his eyes. Varric nearly laughed in his face. _Feel free to underestimate me any time, friend,_ he thought. Hawke’s whistle split the air. He nodded to the miners as he left.

He nudged her hip with his elbow when he walked up, and was rewarded with a small, private grin. That warm glow filled his chest. He breathed deeply, no less affected for having named it. Hawke entered the offshoot tunnel first with him behind, Blondie and Sunshine trailing. 

The walls closed in, forcing them into a line. They walked for nearly an hour, studying the ground for fresh stalker scat and signs of taint, ears open for the scrabble of talons on stone or the harsh breath of the darkspawn. Hawke turned a corner and stopped short. Varric nearly plowed right into her. He caught himself on her hip and felt her stiffen, heard her breath hitch at his touch. He snatched it away. She gestured for quiet and nodded to the room beyond. He looked past her to see shades and some kind of glowing statue, and leaned back before her scent and the urge to pull her lips down to his overwhelmed him. 

She motioned to the mages as he drew Bianca, and vanished in a puff of smoke. Varric stepped down into firing range and let fly, bolts ringing out in their triplet fury. Hawke appeared behind a shade and shredded its midsection, daggers flashing through tattered cloth and ichor as it melted away with a gasp. The shades fell quickly, but the statue ground to life once they did.

Hawke jumped away. “What the shit is that thing, Varric?”

He fired a bolt at it. It clinked stupidly against the thing’s stone body and fell away. “A bunch of angry rocks? Fuck if I know!”

“It’s a golem,” Anders said. “Maker’s chapped ass, I hate the Deep Roads.”

Bethany loosed a fireball at it. It turned slowly and began rumbling toward her. “Focus, Anders!” she snapped. “How do we kill it?”

He spun his staff and released a cone of ice before him. It trapped the golem and drew its attention. “You can’t kill them, since they’re not really alive. Ice slows them, though. Makes them brittle.”

Hawke blitzed toward it, feinting through the ice. She struck the thing’s legs and shattered them. “Good enough for me,” she said. It toppled into the ice, and Hawke sheathed her daggers and turned away. Golden light flowed around its broken body, gathering the pieces back together. It was whole again in moments. 

“Hawke!” Bethany cried.

Varric charged. He collided with her and a massive stone hand crushed the rock she’d stood on a second before. They slid on what was left of the ice, his shoulder taking their weight as his arms bound her against him. Her chest pressed hard on his cheek and her neck curved over his head as she held on, one arm around his neck, the other pinned below his. They hit a wall and broke apart. 

“If you’re quite finished dry humping each other,” Bethany shouted over the grinding stone, “we could use some help over here.”

Varric snorted as he rolled to his feet and pulled Hawke to hers. “Must be bad if you’re the one making lewd jokes, Sunshine.”

Ice encased the golem. Anders slipped from where he’d been pinned and Varric sent three bolts into the thing’s leg. It shattered again and Hawke leapt on it as it fell, reducing its barrel chest to rubble. Anders sent a bolt of lightning into the golden runes pulsing around it. They burst with an electric crackle, and the stones collapsed into a disorganized heap.

Varric holstered Bianca. “Knew you’d earn your keep, Blondie,” he said. 

Anders huffed and stepped daintily around the pile of rocks. They moved on, deeper into the caves, beyond the undying torches and into a different sort of light.

Bethany stared at a pulsing blue vein in the rock. “Lyrium,” she breathed, inhaling some unknown scent. 

Hawke sniffed. “I can’t smell anything.”

Sunshine shook her head. “You wouldn’t. Maker, it’s like being downwind of Fenris on a hot day. Better.”

Hawke looked at her sister. “Fenris smells?”

Beth nodded. “Like a summer storm. Why do you think I volunteered to teach him to read? His bubbling personality?”

Varric laughed. “Oh Sunshine, who knew you were so wanton?”

She grinned. “Still waters, Varric. No one suspects the sweet, innocent younger sister.”

“Your secret’s out now. I can’t wait to get back to Kirkwall and tell the elf you sniff him while he—”

She mussed his hair. “You’ll do no such thing, serah, or I’ll burn every hair tie you own.”

He faked a wince. “Low blow, Sunshine.” He smoothed his hair back into its short tail. “Let’s keep going. We need to find a way around that cave-in before Bartrand starts a war up there.”

They went on, clearing the tunnels of shades and darkspawn, and one horrifyingly gigantic spider that, thank the Maker, didn’t know how to climb stairs. Hawke stood back and let them kill it, close enough to Varric that he heard her shaky breathing as she pressed a cloth on the tear it had ripped into her leg before she’d escaped the pit. Sunshine saw to her sister after the monstrosity curled into itself and the actual lake of black ooze they’d spilled from it. Blondie leaned on his staff, sweating and breathing hard. He’d used most of his mana keeping Hawke alive before momma spider dropped from the ceiling, and Hawke had used most of her energy keeping the creepy crawlies down in the pit and away from her ranged team. 

Varric sighed. They really should have brought at least one of the swordsmen along with them, but Hawke wouldn’t allow it. She worried about losing him in case of a retreat. He huffed a laugh. He’d wanted to bring him along for that very reason. Outrunning the Hawkes or Anders was impossible, but he could move faster than a man in full plate.

The pit had smelled awful when they came to the room, and it was a hundred times worse with the dead spiders. Hawke shook her leg out and walked up to the eight legged menace. She pushed against it. It didn’t budge. She looked longingly across the massive furry bodies to the other side of the room. Varric groaned.

“Hawke. Leave it.”

“But Varric, it’s a chest! Look at it, covered in dust and cobwebs. It’s _ancient._”

“You know it’s going to be a dirty bottle and some pants.”

“But they’ll be _old_ bottles and pants.”

She started climbing over the carcasses and, ancestor’s droopy balls, got absolutely filthy doing it. They watched, not at all interested in joining her, amused to see how far she’d go. She vaulted from the last one onto the stairs at the other side and turned to them to drop a bow. By some unspoken agreement, they all booed. She laughed and knelt to pick the lock.

“Let’s see,” she said with her head in the chest, “amulet, flask, giant sword? Shit. Too bad Fenris isn’t here; I think this is better than what he has.”

“Any torn pants?” Varric asked.

She popped back out and started the long, oozy climb back to them. “Negative on the pants, torn or otherwise. Which is too bad,” she slid from the giant spider to stand in front of them, covered in stiff spider hair and filth, “because I could really use a cloth right about now.”

“Andraste’s knickerweasels, Hawke,” Anders held up a hand, palm out. “You smell worse than my clinic on a busy day.”

Sunshine cocked an eyebrow at him. “Knickerweasels, dear? Do I even want to know?”

He wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her against him. “I’ll show you later, if you like.”

Hawke laughed. “Is it my turn to tell you to get a room, sister?”

Bethany kissed him lightly and broke away. “We all need to get a room, Hawke. Great big one, stuffed with priceless artifacts. Shall we?”

They edged around the spiders and walked on. They came on more darkspawn, ran right into them, really. They cut through them like tissue.

“That was… odd,” Anders said.

“That was easy,” Hawke replied.

“They were running from something,” Bethany said. “What’s so terrifying that darkspawn run from it?”

Varric didn’t want to know. Unfortunately, there was only one way ahead. They kept walking until the tunnel opened into a small chamber, thick with the flayed corpses of over a dozen darkspawn, a frozen ogre, and…

“Sandal?” Hawke asked.

The young dwarf turned his pale face to them, bright blue eyes shining. “'Allo,” he said.

Varric crossed to him. He was covered in blood and gore, but none of it seemed to be his. “Sandal, did you do this?”

He nodded and held out a rune. Varric had never seen anything like it. “Boom,” the boy said.

Hawke snorted. “Boom looks about right, but,” she pointed to the ogre frozen in bright silver, “how did you do that?”

Sandal shrugged. “Not enchantment.” He walked toward the tunnel they’d taken. There was only one place he’d end up, so they let him go.

“What, was that?” Anders asked.

Varric shrugged. “That was Sandal. Bodahn found him in a cave of lyrium when he was just a kid, raised him as his own, loves him like a father. He’s always been a bit different, but you won’t find a better runesmith on the surface.”

Hawke eyeballed the ogre as they left, not entirely trusting the not-enchantment to hold. They stepped through some rubble and walked quite by accident into a pristine assembly hall. A thrill of recognition raced down Varric’s spine; they were getting close. The room was ancient and massive, smooth tile on the ground, a channel of lava on one side and thick columns to the other. Anders stopped them.

“Darkspawn,” he whispered.

They came screaming around a blind corner, and Bianca went to work. He watched Hawke, worried that she was alone in the melee. She called for Bethany’s firestorm the moment she had control, and she was the only one left standing when the smoke cleared. She began wiping her daggers, but Anders called for quiet. They weren’t done yet.

An ogre appeared in the far doorway and bellowed a challenge. Hawke groaned and rolled her shoulders as she got to her feet. The tiled floor shook as the monster charged. Hawke stood her ground. It bellowed again, hot breath in her hair as it reached for her. Varric let fly, his bolts spelled with fire that would burn long after the creature was dead. The ogre grabbed with its massive hand. It uncurled its fingers and paused to gape stupidly at nothing. Hawke reappeared behind it with both daggers at her back. She drove herself into its leg, severing the calf muscle and popping tendons as she went. 

The ogre roared in pain. It swung behind its back for her, but she rolled clear. Anders froze it with a blast of cold and Hawke struck again, shattering its arm at the shoulder. Bethany gathered a fireball in her hands and Varric started humming Bianca’s song, and together they rained bolts and fire on its prone form. It grabbed for Hawke again. She dodged but its reach was enormous, and it caught her foot. She stabbed the wrist with both daggers and twisted. It was too strong. She froze in fear.

Varric snarled. “Not on my watch, fucko.” 

He sent a bolt into its hideous eye and another through its cheek, and the monster released Hawke to clutch its ruined face. She gathered herself and shot to its neck. Her momentum barreled the ogre onto its back and sunk her daggers deep into its corded neck. She tore the blades out sideways and severed every cord. The thing slumped as its lifeblood sprayed her in gore, and she rolled from its still form. He ran to her. She was on one knee, ogre behind her, streaked in red and black, utterly exhausted. He knelt before her and pulled her into his arms.

“Don’t do that to me again, Hawke,” he whispered into her hair.

“Varric,” she said, resting her bloody neck on his shoulder, “you take me to the nicest places.”

He laughed roughly, steadying her as she stood. “Only the best for you, beautiful.”

Blondie strolled over. “You have a little something on your face, Hawke,” he said, “just, there.” Sunshine cuffed him. “What I mean to say, is that your sister found a stream over by the pillars, and she’s happy to help you wash your… everything.”

The Hawkes left for the water. Varric and Anders both sighed as they walked away. He looked up at the mage, who was looking down at him with a knowing expression on his highly punchable face. 

“Don’t say it, Blondie.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” he replied. He was quiet for a moment, then… “You do suit each other, though.”

Varric groaned and stalked away. He dismantled the traps he’d seen before the darkspawn attacked, and sat around a corner from the women as they washed the grime from Hawke and her armor. Blondie joined him, offering a small sandwich he’d made of seeded roll and a thick slice of yellow cheese. Varric took the sandwich and offered his flask, and they shared a quiet meal as they waited.

The women joined them soon after. Blondie produced two more sandwiches, Sunshine had a pocketful of small, shiny apples, and Hawke had a collection of crushed pies and a flask of her favorite whiskey. Varric bit into the tight skin of his apple. As he chewed, he thought this impromptu meal might be the best he’d had outside Kirkwall, shredded darkspawn corpses notwithstanding. Hawke laughed at some joke Blondie told and he watched her eyes shine and her lips part. Her shaking chest formed waves in her thick sable hair, and her forearms bulged as her hands clutched her knees. 

She gave him a look every time he called her beautiful. It was wary and flighty, wanting and unwilling to believe, hesitant warmth with a stone wall behind it. 

She was, though.

They stayed in the hall for nearly an hour before rising to stretch their sloth away. The mages seemed refreshed, and Hawke gleamed like the the Chantry’s statue of Andraste herself. She took took point as they passed through the door and into a winding hall. They tread carefully, waiting for an ambush that never came. Varric noticed some charring on the walls and pointed it out to Hawke. She nodded, grim, and pointed further down the hall. Something was still on fire. They went on, mistrustful of the lack of darkspawn, worried at what the fire could mean. The hall opened into a processional chamber with a massive, crumbling platform in the center of the room. Both it and the walls were black with soot.

“Maybe it’s sleeping,” Hawke whispered.

Varric shook his head and passed her a booster potion. They clinked them together and downed the red liquid, wincing at the burn. His heart thudded and a shiver coursed through him as the draught took hold. They edged along one charred wall, slow and steady, easy, nothing to— 

A piercing scream tore through the room. The air snapped under leathery wings as it bore down on them from a ruined cornice, and a gout of flame shot from its maw. They scattered. The mages retreated to the tunnels, but he and Hawke were forced further into the room. The massive dragon landed with a crunch of shattering stone and glared at the tunnel, animal malice in its slitted eyes. Varric breathed. Not an archdemon. Not a god. Just a dumb beast who’d lived too long. He brought Bianca forward. 

“Hey, lizard dick,” he shouted, drawing its attention from the trapped mages, “chew on steel.” 

He stroked the rune of cold and fired freezing bolts into the soft belly seam where its armored top scales met the pliable lower ones. It roared with pain and fury and gave chase. He turned tail and ran to the stairs that led to the platform, sending a desperate prayer that it had been built like those in Orzammar. The mages took advantage of the dragon’s broad side and flung ice into its natural armor while Hawke scythed down its sides, shattering the frozen scales. The dragon roared in pain as its scales fell and turned from its former quarry. It was huge and clumsy on the ground, and Hawke dodged the snap of its teeth easily. 

Varric reached the grand stage, spun, and brought Bianca up again. Hawke had left a broad swath of naked skin along the dragon’s side. He started humming his song, three by three, and sank dozens of bolts into the vulnerable flesh. It didn’t turn. Hawke shouted at the mages and they focused on the ground below it, icing a long trail at her heels. The dragon hit the ice and slid, its tail whipping as it tried to stay upright. Anders fell back, but Bethany was caught by a wild lash and flew through the air. She crashed against the floor and crumpled to her side. Anders screamed her name. Varric was too far to help, too busy keeping the dragon off Hawke now that it was clear of the ice.

Hawke looked behind her, but the dragon was too close. She vanished in a puff of smoke just as the beast drew back to spew flames that would certainly have roasted her. The beast cut its fire short and looked around, so obviously confused that Varric loosed a short, hysterical laugh. The dragon snaked its head to the sound. Target acquired. Varric sighed. He let off three bolts that clinked harmlessly from the beast and started running again. 

He hadn’t seen an obvious trap door, but these things were always made with subtlety. He stomped on every likely looking join in the tile, hollow echoes hinting at salvation but the entry was maddeningly out of reach. The dragon slithered up the stairs in full pursuit, rearing back with fire in its gullet. Varric rolled to the side just as it loosed flame across the platform, singeing the edges of his duster in a stink of burned leather and silk.

The dragon coughed suddenly, sending a fireball into the opposite wall. Varric turned to see Hawke bury her daggers deep into its scaly leg. She pulled back to sever the major tendon running from hock to ankle, laming the beast. Its tail lashed and knocked her to the side, but she tucked into a neat roll and landed in front of him. 

“Beth’s fine,” she said, “but Anders is spent and they have company. I have this asshole. Look after my sister, Varric.”

She started to leave, but he held her. “There’s a trap door up here somewhere. Find the keystone. Dragon's too big to follow.”

She nodded, and raced back to the dragon as it foundered on the stage. Varric slapped the cinders from his duster and ran to the platform’s edge. The mages were surrounded by dragonlings and losing ground fast. Varric shouted to them. Sunshine looked up, grim, and saw what he intended. She downed a potion of lyrium and sent out a blast of ice that froze everything in a fifteen foot radius, then pulled an arcane shield around Anders and herself. Varric released a hail of bolts into the room as he heard Hawke’s battle cry. The dragonlings shattered under Bianca’s assault and he wanted to turn, needed to see why Hawke had screamed but there was another wave of drakes, and they were coming for him. 

He holstered Bianca and leapt from the platform just as their snaking necks reached for him. He saw Hawke for one fleeting moment, bleeding from a gash over her eye and holding her left arm at an odd angle. He palmed the grenades at his belt, only three, only to be used as a last resort. The dragonlings were coming down the stairs in a tight group, teeth slashing among themselves. He took one grenade, the rough glass heavy in his hand, and lobbed it onto the stairs to blast the little bastards into wet, shredded embers. He ran to the platform where he’d seen Hawke last, his boots squelching in burnt dragonflesh. She’d kited the dragon down the stairs to a fat pillar, and vanished again just as it drew back to strike. It hit the wall full force, breaking stone and bloodying its teeth. Hawke appeared at his side moments later, breath ragged in her chest, bleeding from too many places. He offered an elfroot potion, but she shook her head.

“Took two already,” she said. “Already shaking. Don’t want… to know what happens after, three.”

The dragon shook its head and searched the room with its remaining eye. The other hung from its skull by a thick crimson thread, twisting with each move the beast made. Varric grunted as he gave her a quick once over, then tugged her down to bandage the worst of it. Her left arm was broken at the humerus, but it looked clean. He snapped the head from one of his bolts and used the shaft as a splint, wrapping it tightly against her with a strip torn from his sash. She gritted her teeth. 

“It’s just a broken funny bone,” he said as he tied off the splint. “Maybe the chicken story will finally find its audience as a drama.”

She giggled. He grinned. Her giggling became a chuckle, then a full belly laugh and his grin faded as she started to lose control. The dragon turned to the sound and lumbered toward them in its three-legged gait. 

“Okay Hawke, I’m glad you liked that but it’s time to come back now.” 

The dragon was at the stairs. Hawke had slumped to the ground, seized with hysterical laughter. The beast cleared the platform, and Varric held his breath as it swept its head side to side, looking for them. He scanned the floor, desperate to find the keystone. Hawke grabbed at his ankles. He shook her off, cursing under his breath as the dragon drew closer. She pulled at his trousers now, still wheezing but insistent. He looked down. Her eyes were glassy, pupils blown out from the double dose of elfroot, but under her hand was a small, oval stone. The keystone. She punched it and they sank silently below the platform.

The hidden lift hit the ground with a dull clang and the dragon wheeled about. Varric slung her over his shoulder as it reached the hole. He leapt from the lowered platform chased by a pillar of flame and for the second time that day, his duster caught fire. He slid Hawke down against a rough pillar and beat the glowing embers from his favorite coat with a flood of curses. Hawke giggled.

They heard Bethany and Anders above, the crackle of ice and lightning, the enraged shriek as the dragon tried in vain to follow them below. He offered his waterskin, but she wouldn’t take it. Or… couldn’t. He knelt beside her in the faint light, tore his gloves off and and traced his fingers down her neck, checking for a pulse. It was there, faint and too fast. 

“Hawke.” Her head lolled to the side. He shook her. “Hawke!” A giggle escaped in a hiccup, and she moaned. “This isn’t elfroot. What did you take, Hawke?” She shook her head and stared into the dark, drifting away. He bit his cheek, and slapped her.

“Ow. Fuck, Varric.” The shock brought her back, but her eyes slid past him, drawn to the shaft of light that danced with the dragon’s fury.

He grabbed her jaw and forced her to look at him. “What did you _take_?" his voice rough and edged with panic.

“Ionno,” she said, slurring. “Stam, fixit, maybe an armor. ‘Cause my arm,” she laughed weakly.

“Armor? Rock armor?” She nodded. Shit. He dug through his potions and found what he needed at the very bottom, dusty and chipped, but unsullied. He started taking her gauntlets off. She let him, watching the battle rage above. He moved to her chest armor and took that off too, hesitating only when she was down to the tunic. He gripped the threadbare fabric and started to tear.

“Stop!” she pulled at his hands.

“You mixed draughts,” he said, “I need to give you the antidote or you’ll—”

“Not the shirt,” she said as her hands slipped from him. “Don’t tear the shirt.”

He looked at her, looked at the delicate fabric in his callused hand. “Help me, then.”

She untucked the tunic and tried to lift it over her head, but it slid through her fingers. He took it from her and eased it over her shoulders, untangled it from her hair. His breath caught to see her, the rolling muscles around her breast bind, the dusky skin crossed with scars and wounds both barely healed and newly rent. He draped her father’s tunic around her shoulders and took her flask. She watched as he tore another piece of cloth from his sash and doused it in whiskey, and she flinched when he used it to clean the sensitive skin inside her elbow. He took the long needle in its glass bulb and broke the wax seal. He pressed the plunger. A tiny drop of precious golden liquid seeped from its beveled tip. Her vein was blessedly easy to find, straight and true in her muscular arm. He held her tightly with one hand and pierced her skin with the other, sending the antidote into her bloodstream, praying he wasn’t too late.

He slid the needle from her and pressed the whiskey soaked cloth where the blood welled darkly. She hissed at the sting. He pressed his fingers to her neck again, counting seconds and pulses as he’d done too many times before. Her heart slowed, her breathing steadied, and he smoothed his palm against her throat to press his fingers into the back of her neck. He rested his forehead on hers, willing his breath to slow as well. 

She sniffled. “You’ve done that before,” she said.

He nodded against her. “You’re not the first merc to double dip. Bet you were flying for about two minutes.”

“She grabbed me,” she said, “I took the draught, and then I took her eye. She let go after that.”

Varric exhaled heavily and sat back. The dragon was dying behind him. He heard the scrape of Bethany’s bladed staff on scale, metallic and quietly shrieking. The beast let out a final, shuddering breath, and thick silence descended. He lifted the tunic from her shoulders and helped her dress, hoping they were as close to the thaig as this trap suggested. There would be tunnels, glorious to behold, that would run from this lower room to the very center of the thaig if his time in Orzammar was any indication. They called it the King’s Walk, the clever hidden mechanisms used as much for security as dramatic effect. They needed a real door for the expedition, though. He handed Hawke her gauntlets, slipped on his own, and walked to the lift.

Blondie poked his face into the hole. “You alive down there?” he asked.

“That depends,” he said, “are there any more dragons up there?”

Sunshine’s head joined him. “Nothing but charred meat and bodies to loot, no thanks to you two.”

“Hey!” Hawke rasped from behind him. “I softened her up for you, ingrates. Hey… has anyone seen my legs?”

Varric groaned. Bethany and Anders shared a look. “Still attached, Hawke. I’m not surprised you can’t feel them, though.” He went to her and tried to pull her to her feet. True to her word, her legs were useless. “Hawke.’

She smiled a sleepy smile at him, fuzzy and soft. It was a look that could have watered his knees, but this was a bad time and a worse place. “Varric,” she purred, rolling the ‘r’ on her tongue. “Varrrrri-ck.” 

“Come on,” he said, lifting her to her feet one more time. She slumped back to the floor. He sighed. “Okay. I’m going to carry you to the lift. Ready?” She raised her arms. He laid her over his shoulders again, easing her between him and Bianca in her harness. He grunted getting to his feet. “Andraste’s flaming knickers, Hawke, how are you so heavy?”

“Some dwarf keeps buying me overcooked steaks.”

They laughed as he set her down on the lift. He hit the keystone, and the ancient gears creaked to life to raise them up like kings of old. It ground to a halt on the dragon’s limp form, cracking bone and bursting skin before the mechanism gave up. Anders helped him carry Hawke to a low stone wall and they set her down, resting her back against the support and straightening her legs.

Sunshine watched them fuss over her. “What happened?”

“Alchemy, sister. The bad kind,” Hawke replied.

“She mixed her draughts,” Varric said when Bethany didn’t answer. “It’s a beast of a high, but that first step down is a doozy.”

Anders sucked his teeth. “You had ruxlim on you?” Varric nodded. “Lucky. Damn, that was lucky.”

“It was my last vial, so no more double dipping, Hawke.”

She shook her head. “Never again. It was like I fell in a vat of oil and feathers,” she said, “like I would choke on laughter and drown in misery.”

Laughter and misery. Varric shook his head, tried to shake the feeling she was talking about him. They rested until Anders regained enough mana to treat her wounds and burn out the rest of the nearly fatal cocktail. Varric and Bethany poked the dragons for loot and brought it back to their makeshift camp as he worked. They divided it up, a ruby band for Sunshine, real dwarven armor for Hawke, and thick golden coins stamped with forgotten kings for everyone. Varric punched new holes into the straps of the armor and helped Hawke into it when she could sit up.

They shared the waterskins and flasks around, and moved on when Hawke could feel her legs again. She leaned heavily on Varric, her hand on his shoulder, his arm around her waist. They left that room and took a short tunnel, fallen timber ablaze from the dragon’s long habitation. When they came into a second grand hall, Varric’s entire body tingled. This had to be it. He squinted at the massive vault opposite them, the staircase twice as grand as those in the processional hall, the pillars thick and proud. Oh, Bartrand was going to love this. 

Soft scraping followed them. He tilted his ear back toward it, and it became louder. A hiss of serpentine breath sounded in the room. He looked behind them to see another blighted group of dragonlings, hot on their trail. He looked at the mages, worn and spent. He looked at Hawke, upright thanks only to sheer force of will. The drakes scrabbled on the stone, excited by the scent of blood, snapping and clawing each other in a mad bid to be the first to tear flesh, to rend skin. Sunshine gripped her staff and turned to them, eyes fierce, shoulders sagging. He fingered his grenades. If this wasn’t the entrance they’d go back, tell Bartrand to keep digging. He couldn’t put them through any more bullshit for this thrice cursed expedition. 

He stopped. Hawke stumbled and caught herself on him as he freed a grenade from his belt. He tracked the drakes’ increasing sound, behind them, a bit to the left, forty feet out, thirty, fifteen. He tossed the grenade over his shoulder. It hit the ground with a soft tinkle of breaking glass. The cacophony of screeching and the soft whump of consuming flames reached him like a song. Their flickering shadows stretched like giants across the long stone floor. He glanced over his shoulder once, just to be sure he’d gotten them all.

He had. 

They approached the grand entrance. Varric stopped and helped Hawke sit down. He walked right up to the massive doors that reached to the chamber ceiling high above and laid a hand on the runes there. They were unlike anything he’d seen before, but just as he’d recognized the assembly and processional chambers, he recognized the entrance to a thaig. He scoffed. Some things were passed down in the blood, sun-touched or no. He turned to his exhausted crew.

“This is it,” he said. “Sunshine and I will go back to tell Bartrand. Blondie, you stay with Hawke. She’s in no condition to walk that far, and you’re the best of us against the darkspawn. Here,” he gave Hawke his waterskin and the last grenade. “We’ll be back as soon as we can with everything we need for a proper camp.”

Hawke shook her head. “Your brother will want you stay—”

“Bartrand can die mad about it. We’ll be back in three hours.”

Sunshine kissed the top of her sister’s head, then kissed Blondie thoroughly while Hawke groaned behind them. Varric turned on his heel to leave before he could change his mind. Bethany trotted to catch him on the stairs and followed at his left shoulder as they walked.

“She likes you,” she said when they’d passed through the grand chambers and returned to the lyrium tunnels.

Varric grunted. “We’ll see. Her prospects are about to improve dramatically.”

Bethany scoffed. “You think she cares about that? A grand estate, a noble title?” He shrugged. She tsked at him. “There are exactly three things Hawke has said she’d do with her share.” She counted on her fingers. “Get a dog, have her own room again, and tell the templars to fuck all the way off.” She huffed. “Honestly, Varric. For someone who spends so much time mooning over her, you haven’t seen her at all.”

“Mooning? _Mooning,_ Sunshine? I don’t _moon._”

She smiled. “I’m not always as passed out as I seem when you two carry me upstairs. Sometimes it’s the only way I can deal with all the sexual tension.”

“What?” he sputtered. “There’s no—”

She laughed, light and lovely. “No what, attraction? No heated glances or lingering hands?” She shook her head. “Lie to yourself if you must, serah, but you won’t fool me. Why do you think I leave you two alone every chance I get?”

He shoved his hands into his pockets. They walked in silence for a while, listening to the creak and drip of the caves. The creatures they’d slain were still reassuringly dead, and nothing jumped from the shadows. He tried not to dwell on Blondie and Hawke alone at the thaig, one wounded, the other drained, both exhausted. The thought of them huddling alone before a meager fire, listening to the moan and echo of the thaig behind them quickened his step.

“You’re thinking about her again,” she said.

“I’m what?”

“Your ears go red at the edges, and your eyes unfocus just a bit.” He glared back at her. “Then she’ll catch your attention, and you light up like the dawn.” He snorted. She gave him a small, sad smile. “She does the same thing, only it’s her neck that blushes.”

His ears were definitely burning. The image of his hand on Hawke’s long, graceful neck below the platform flashed in his mind. Had she flushed? It was too dark to tell. He shivered. “I don’t like leaving them there,” he admitted.

She hummed. “You were right to, though. She’ll be safe with Anders, and we make better time without them.”

He tried to share her optimism. “You have a lot of faith in Blondie.”

She was quiet for a moment. “You don’t like him,” she said.

“I like Blondie just fine. It’s big blue I don’t trust.”

She sighed. “Justice does complicate things. You know, Anders actually told me not to pursue him at first. That he’d only hurt me.” A light scoff. “As if it didn’t hurt enough, just living as an apostate. As if finding another who knows what it’s like didn’t make up for everything a hundred times over.”

“Hawke seems to approve.”

“She has her reservations. She cornered me at the inn the day after we left Kirkwall, made me swear I’d be careful, seal myself, all that.” She giggled. “As if I wasn’t careful already. Maker knows I could never bring a child into the world, not with all the magic running in my blood.”

“It’s that great a burden?”

“It is. Anders and I, we help each other bear it.”

“He makes you happy?”

She nodded, stepping around the shriveling spider corpses as they skirted the pit. “He feels like home.”

Varric’s breath caught in his chest. _He feels like home._ They’d returned to the first set of tunnels. The undying torches bathed them in blue light that was eerie again after being away from it, and the distant sounds of the caravan echoed through the narrow halls. 

He distracted himself with conjuring the right words to give his brother, keeping them concise and implacable, so he could return to Hawke soon as he’d gathered their things. He didn’t think about how those sparrows had filled his chest when she slammed through his door without knocking, or when she looked up at him from their long table in the tavern. He didn’t remember how his body tingled when she ruffled his hair in the tunnel, a tankard of fine ale in her hand and soft fondness in her eyes. He didn’t feel the echo of waking with her lanky body curled around him, warm and safe, like he could do this for the rest of his life.

No, he didn’t think about her at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So in the game it says the Rock Armor potion isn't compatible with the Mighty Offense potion. The game won't let you take both because game mechanics, but it made me wonder what would happen if you did. I've never had to administer Narcan, but I've been in Varric's shoes in other ways and I'm not afraid to say it's no fun at all.


	8. The Bloody Thaig

Hawke was asleep when they returned. They passed through the broken wall, and Anders ran to them to take Bethany's only satchel and hold her close. Varric rolled his eyes. 

“Blondie,” he huffed, holding out the pack stuffed with four of his brother’s bedrolls, “a little help?” 

Sunshine shooed Varric away, but Anders did take the bag from him. They made camp around the fire he’d built while he waited. Hawke was sprawled beside it, peaceful in what looked to be a horribly uncomfortable position. Varric’s back ached to see her slumped over a pile of stones. He glared at Anders.

“What in—”

Blondie held up his hands. “She did that all by herself. I tried to move her, but she nearly broke my nose.”

Varric’s growing anger whiffed out in a chuckle. She’d passed out on his stone table so often, he could see her cuddle up with some dusty rubble if she were tired enough. They laid out the bedrolls, and Varric set a spit over the small fire to roast the nug shanks he’d nicked from Bartrand’s stash. Sunshine and Blondie left to refill their skins at the stream in the assembly chamber, and he was alone with Hawke. He sat beside her and started to unlace her boots.

“Wondered when you’d get around to undressing me with more than your eyes,” she murmured, her own eyes still closed. Varric chuckled and pulled the boot away. He wrinkled his nose. “Hey.” He looked up. She was watching him now, sleepy and amused. “You don’t smell like a field of daisies either, serah.”

“I’m still here, aren’t I?” he said, reaching for the other boot. She shuffled it over. He dropped it with its mate and peeled her damp socks off to replace them with a thick, dry pair from his pack. They were comically big on her, but the way her eyelids fluttered as he slid them on chased his amusement with something far more heated. He led her to a bedroll. She sat on the cover and tugged him down with her. She traced the buckles of Bianca’s harness, so he took her from the holster and set her aside. Hawke flicked the straps from their keepers, and he watched as she ran the thick leather through its silver buckles. Her eyes stayed down, focused on her hands. She ran fingertips below the warm leather, the soft sound of it detaching from the grooves in his duster sending a thrill down his spine, so like a kiss his breath hitched. She noticed, but she didn’t stop.

He raised a hand to help. She pushed it back down and slid the harness off one shoulder, then the other. He took it and laid it gently over Bianca, and turned back to her. She slid her hands up below the duster now, her callused palms catching on the fine cloth of his red tunic. He shrugged his shoulders under her touch, letting the armored coat slump behind him. He drew his arms from the sleeves, and started to work on her leathers.

Her gauntlets slipped away easily, but the new dwarven cuirass creaked under his fingers, the leather desperate for conditioning. He set it in a growing pile near Bianca. She pulled the stained and bloody tunic over her head and tossed it to the side. He moved to her leather breeches, fingers deft as he unbuckled her belt and untied the stays at her hips. She lifted and he pulled, bunching the burnt and bloody leather in his fists, careful not to catch the soft leggings below. He laid them on the rest, and turned to look at her. 

“How’s your face?” he asked

“My face?” Her brows knit in confusion. He clicked his tongue and swatted the air. “Oh!” She laughed. “My face is alive, thanks to you.”

“You scared the shit out of me.” He looked away. “Still, it doesn’t feel great to smack a friend without agreeing on a safe word first.”

She curled a finger on his chin, making him face her. “Meadowbright.” 

Varric tilted his head at the seeming non-sequitur. She watched as understanding dawned on him, his lips parting, his eyes widening, his ears burning. Her eyes were frank, warm and direct. Meadowbright, the tall, hardy flowers with their cone-shaped centers that bloomed in rolling fields of purple and white, even in the worst years. It suited her. He nodded, and she let her hand drop to her lap. 

“Meadowbright,” she repeated. “And just so we’re clear, you have permission to save my ass however you see fit.” 

He recovered enough of his senses to laugh feebly at that. She took a thick cloth from her pack and knelt by the fire with a waterskin. He started to get up, but she glanced back. 

“If you’re leaving to give me privacy, there’s no need,” she said, amused. “You've seen this already.”

He sat back down with a huff and pulled off his own boots. She washed by the fire, rinsing the cloth into a bowl that quickly turned an alarming shade of reddish brown. He did get up then, to throw it down the side of the platform and refill it from his own waterskin. She nodded in thanks, and went on washing. He turned the spit, tweaked a piece of crisp skin from the stumpy leg, and watched her in his peripheral. Stubborn flecks still multiplied her freckles, but the streaks of black and red were gone. At last she stood, padding in his enormous socks to throw out the filthy water and root through her satchel for a fresh tunic. She pulled it over her head, and turned to him holding a new cloth.

“You next?” she asked.

“If you’re offering.”

She dropped it into a bowl of fresh water and walked away, giving him the privacy she’d declined. He pulled off his sweaty, blackened tunic and set to work, and was surprised at how quickly the water darkened. Maker, he must have looked shocking to the expedition. Little wonder Bartrand had held his tongue when he’d said his piece. He chuckled, and Hawke turned. He watched her neck flush on seeing him shirtless, and he bit his cheek to keep from laughing out loud. Maybe Sunshine wasn’t pulling his leg. She held her hand out for the bowl, and studied the shift of his muscles with an artist’s precision. Or perhaps, an assassin’s. He shivered at the thought. 

She dumped the water and filled it with the last of hers. She held it out, but he didn’t take it.

“Do you mind,” he patted the back of his neck. Her eyes darkened as she watched his arm flex and bunch. “I can’t really reach…”

“What, all those muscles keep you from washing properly?”

“Not usually, but I left my brush at home.”

She huffed, but she did kneel behind him. “Maker,” she breathed. “No wonder you don't need a stand for Bianca.” 

He chuckled. “Yeah. She’s not really built to shoot from the hip, but my stubborn ass does it anyway.”

He heard the cloth lift from the water, and the water splash back into the bowl as she wrung it out. She started with a light touch that grew stronger, pressing into the tight muscle, massaging dirt from skin and tension from flesh. He rolled his neck as she worked, biting back a moan. The cloth dropped into the bowl. He felt breath on his shoulder, the soft press of lips. He turned, too slowly. She was already standing, walking to the edge of the platform with her arms crossed. He sighed as he took the cloth. It was just clean enough to pull the dirt from his chest, so he did. He threw a fresh tunic over his shoulder when he was clean as he was likely to get, and walked toward her. The water fell into the filthy puddle they’d made, and he set their makeshift basin off to the side. She turned to him as he pulled the tunic over his head.

“Ah, there was a dwarf under all that soot,” she said with a grin.

He started to reply, but Blondie and Sunshine walked through the broken wall. He settled the soft red cloth around himself and unhooked the spit while she jogged toward them. They climbed the stairs with heavy steps. He shredded the steaming flesh into a large bowl, sucking his fingers as they began to burn. The bones he tossed far to the side, to clatter on the tile below. 

“Nug has no right to smell as good as it does,” Sunshine said as she set her waterskins down.

Varric chuckled. “It doesn’t smell all that nice, but hunger is the best sauce.”

They sat around a low, flat stone that served well enough as a table. Varric stirred a handful of chilies and dried fruit into the hot meat, and it melted into the fat and juice below to make a real sauce. They ate with their fingers, messy and laughing as they traded stories and shared the flasks of whiskey. Hawke produced still more sticky pies, and Sunshine made fun of her for bringing nothing but sweets and liquor. Hawke said she’d happily take a double share. That resulted in a good-natured tussle, from which Varric only narrowly managed to save both pies and whiskey. Hawke laughed and let her sister pin her after a few minutes, and they finished their meal in relative peace. Varric offered to take first watch. Sunshine and Blondie retired to their double bedroll on the far side of the fire. Varric left for a piss, and returned to see Hawke scarf the last bite of yet another pie she’d hoarded. He shook his head at her, and she giggled. He sat next to her by the fire.

“I didn’t know you could cook,” Hawke said as she licked her fingers.

He looked away before his thoughts leap headlong into the gutter. “Don’t know that this really counts as cooking,” he demurred.

She wiped her fingers to count on them. “Those shanks were roasted to perfection, so you have a good sense of heat and timing. You knew to skin and shred them over a bowl, so you have a technique to preserve the tastiest bits. And you knew those particular fruits are soft enough to melt into a sauce, so you brought them along. That’s a very impressive collection of skills to not count as cooking.”

He shrugged. “Bartrand would drag me along on his endless business trips when we were younger. I’d fall back to the chuck carts when I wanted to lose him for a while. He’d never deign to check with the greasers, and I got first pick of whatever they made for the night.”

She chuckled. “My mom despaired of me ever learning to cook. I was always too busy running through the woods, setting traps that never caught anything and shooting arrows that never hit anything. I’m still a lousy shot, and if you could burn a pot of water, I’d find a way to do it.”

“You’re lucky you’ve got me, then,” he said with a smile.

She turned to him, studied his eyes for… something. He couldn’t tell if she found it before she turned back to the fire.

“Jury’s out on what kind of luck. You did bring us down here.”

He didn’t have an answer for that, so he stared into the flames with her. The doors of the thaig loomed before them. His mind wandered to his brother, wondering how long Bartrand would take to rally the caravan on his own. Hawke… he didn’t know. She’d been distant since the inn, keeping him at arm’s length with only a few searing exceptions. He could still feel her clinging to him as they slid away from the golem, still feel the warmth of her breath on his bare shoulder. 

After a while she shook herself and stood. He glanced up. She took up a cloth and filled the water bowl again, then pulled her leathers into her lap. He watched her clean and condition the armor, slow and thorough, for over an hour until it gleamed. Her new chest piece gave her some trouble, its dwarven pattern unfamiliar to her. He held out a hand for it.

“I’ll loosen it up for you.”

She gave it to him. “Show me.”

He pointed out the hidden buckles, the clever stays that would never fall to let the straps loose. Together they cleaned and oiled the leather, bronto calfskin if he had to guess, layered with hard ingots too light to be iron. There were hours before his watch was over. She didn’t seem inclined to leave him to it, so he helped her back into the armor and brought out a pack of cards.

“You’re a fair hand at Wicked Grace, but how’s your diamondback game?”

She scrunched her nose. “Not great. I’ll play, but I’m not betting real money against you.”

“No point with only two,” he said, dealing the cards. “I can see how you play and give you some pointers, if you’re willing.”

She nodded, sweeping the cards into her hand. They played through the night, ears sharp for intruders, eyes watching for tells. Nothing came for them but bone-deep exhaustion, and they were both stifling yawns as his watch came to an end. Hawke’s game improved a bit, but she had a long way to go before sitting at a Guild table. Great ancestors, that would be a sight. She rose and stretched when his timepiece reached the hour. He went to wake the snoring couple. They grumbled a bit, but soon were up with strong coffee and his cards. Hawke started taking her armor off yet again, and his fingers itched to help. He turned to his bedroll instead.

He heard the covers rustle as she settled down. She sighed, and it trailed into a long, pleased moan that sent shivers racing down his skin and heat coiling in his belly. 

“That good?” he asked, smiling into his own pillow.

“Mm, Varric. You’re not getting this back. I’ll piss on it if I have to.”

He laughed. “It’s all yours, no need to mark your territory. Call it an advance against our triumphant return.”

Sleep claimed them both within seconds. His brother’s shouting woke them only minutes later, though according to Sunshine, they’d slept for nearly five hours. Regardless, it wasn’t nearly enough to deal with Bartrand and whatever nugshit he was on. Varric sat up rubbing his face, and accepted the mug of black coffee Blondie offered. Hawke was up already, slouched against a stone pillar and flipping a butterfly knife, looking for all the world like a cocky Lowtown vagrant. He chuckled to himself. She _was_ a cocky Lowtown vagrant, but not for much longer. He tried to picture her installed in that Hightown estate wearing a fine dress, and failed completely.

Bartrand huffed up the stairs. “This is it, then?”

Varric nodded. “If that’s not a thaig, I’ll eat my belt. We didn’t go any further in. Figured you’d want to break the seal on it yourself.” 

His ploy was twofold. First, Bartrand would strut around like a stuffed cockerel and hopefully leave him the hell alone for at least a full day. Second, he had zero interest in disturbing whatever had bunked down in there over the last thousand years without an army behind him. He could see it working already; his brother was at half mast just thinking about it. Charming. Bartrand waved them inside, and they fell in behind him to slip through the doors one at a time.

They walked through a grey hall streaked with strange red light, and stopped at a crumbling staircase. The thaig stretched out before them, lit in hazy red and lyrium blue, all cracked columns and glowing crystals and fallen blocks. Absent were the epic tributes to the Paragons, nothing but hard, straight columns where his gut told him heroic statuary should be. Stout lanterns with delicate stone finials lined broad, shallow stairs, but their light was sickly crimson. All was desolation and ruin, and this was just the beginning. A chill gripped his spine and wouldn’t let go.

“Is this what you expected, brother?” he murmured.

Bartrand clenched his fists. “I, don’t know. I expected it to be old, but this… what is this place? None of it makes sense.”

“We’re well below the Deep Roads,” Anders said. “I can’t sense the darkspawn at all. They’re avoiding it. I think… I think they always have.”

Once again Varric found himself wondering what kind of power would keep the darkspawn away. He had a ticklish feeling the answer wouldn’t be so welcome this time. 

Hawke crossed her arms with a doubtful look. “How did you even know it was here?”

“Rumors,” Bartrand said. “Scavengers’ tales, after the Third Blight. No one believed them.”

“Looks like they were right,” Varric said.

Bartrand shook himself from the thaig’s spell and turned to the caravan. “We’ll make camp here,” he shouted.

Varric winced as his brother’s voice echoed through the cavernous space. If there was anything listening in those grim, grey halls, it knew it wasn’t alone anymore. He turned to his little group. Hawke studied the way ahead, and he wondered what she saw. Anders was pacing, unsettled by whatever his Warden sharpened senses told him. Sunshine had gone to speak with Bodahn and Sandal, and he saw her buy several potions and an enchantment. Sandal’s small case glowed with warm amber light as he worked, and Bethany smiled to watch him work so happily. Varric nudged Hawke and they left to replenish their waterskins and provisions, enough for a full day of exploring, plus some extra. He guessed the thaig would take another week to fully explore, but the less time they spent down there the happier he’d be. He was coming down with an acute case of the creeps.

Hawke led the way down the steps, wary of the many tumbled walls and cracked pillars. The expedition passed from sight, then from hearing. Red crystals grew in the chipped seams and around the pillars like vines, and it pulsed that same sickly crimson in the lanterns. 

“What is this stuff?” Hawke asked.

Sunshine shook her head. “It has to be lyrium, but it’s like none I’ve ever seen. It’s the wrong color, the wrong smell, and I could swear there’s a hum coming off it.” She shivered. “Just whatever you do, don’t touch it. Blue lyrium is bad enough, but this is—”

“It’s singing,” Varric said. The sound clawed into his ears, high and sweet, impossible to ignore when he came too near a cluster. He kept his distance. 

“I thought that was a myth,” Hawke said.

“No it’s very real,” Anders said. “That’s how the dwarves find new veins. I’m surprised you can hear it, Varric. I thought you lost that… sensitivity, when you went to the surface.”

“I’m as surprised as you are, Blondie. I’ve never heard anything like it.”

Sunshine sighed. “Well,” she said lightly, “that’s not ominous at all.”

Hawke held up a hand for quiet. She edged down a flight of stairs mostly fallen to rubble, and drew her daggers. Varric saw what she did a moment later, another stone golem, another group of shades. He took Bianca from her holster, grateful her stays were padded for silence. Hawke made eye contact with each of them, and vanished.

Two shades fell shrieking, their ichor pooling on her blades. The others moved to attack, but she disappeared into a smoke bomb. Sunshine and Blondie traded blasts of ice into the golem, and Varric focused his fire on the huge stone legs, shattering them as they froze. It never stayed frozen for long. Hawke gathered the remaining shades into a group, and Bethany lit them up with a massive fireball. They sloughed away, half into the ground, half to Maker knew where. The angry rocks seemed angriest at him, so he had no time to wax philosophical on where the bad shades went when they died.

Bethany caught the golem in a cone of ice. Hawke leapt on it with her daggers reversed, and carved a deep gash in the glowing runes around its shoulder. Their light went out, and the arm fell to useless stones. Varric holstered Bianca to draw his own dagger, and together they erased the writing from its stone. The thing fell apart when he scratched the lines banding its chest.

Hawke sheathed her daggers. “Well, now we know,” she said.

Varric blew dust from his. “And knowing is half the battle,” he replied.

The sisters Hawke looted the bodies and plundered the chests, which led to a squabble over who would get the ring they found.

“No Beth, it’s better for you. Look! The ruby will focus your fire.”

“Hawke. Silver will help you recuperate faster. You need everything you can get while you’re down there taking the blows for us.”

“Ladies, ladies,” Varric broke in, “I believe that belongs to me. Dwarven ruins, dwarven ring.” 

He removed his glove and wiggled his thick fingers at them. Hawke held the ring up to her eye, noticing for the first time that it would fall off even her thumb. She sighed and flicked it over to him. He caught it and slipped it on, realizing he couldn’t read the runes as he admired the perfect fit. He shrugged. It was silver and ruby. Everyone knew what it was for.

They moved to a door waiting on the other side of the room. It opened into a low, narrow hallway guarded by huge, dark statues and lit with channels of lava. Varric didn’t recognize the statues as dwarves, or anything else for that matter. The air in the hall was cooked and stale, as though it hadn’t moved in a millennium. He motioned them on. No telling what poison hung in that miasma. They jogged to the next door.

It creaked open at their touch. The air was less noxious here, though it practically vibrated with the red lyrium’s song. A massive red crystal burst from one wall to tower over a stone plinth. Varric ground his teeth against the invading hum, his contrarian instincts rising up against the song’s keening insistence. He made a mental note to warn the other dwarves against the place.

“Well.” Hawke put her hands on her hips and looked around. “For such a fancy door, this is a very empty room. What do you make of it, Varric?”

He scowled. “What am I supposed to make of it? It’s a vault. Vaults have valuables… somewhere.”

Sunshine climbed the stairs. “I’m surprised at both of you. Have you never read a scavenger serial? The loot is always on a pedestal.” She stopped at the low plinth and let out a low whistle. “Like this one.”

Varric didn’t want to go any nearer to the pulsing crimson wall, but everyone else did. He climbed the stairs slowly and put himself opposite the red lyrium. His eyebrows raised. “Is that…?”

“Lyrium,” Bethany said. “Carved lyrium.”

“It’s definitely magic,” Anders breathed. “And not the good kind.”

Varric shook his head. “Lyrium doesn’t whittle. Lyrium explodes. If this really is… what you say it is—”

“It would be worth a fortune,” Bartrand broke in. 

His voice echoed through the vault. He joined them at the plinth, cool as a meltwater flood and grossly pleased with himself. Varric scowled at his brother, but Bartrand only had eyes for the idol. Varric followed his his hungry stare. The carving was of a crone leaning into a thick circle, holding two emaciated figures in her arms. Her face was lifted in ageless toil. All three emerged from a dark, thorned opening that ended in a thick clump of raw, red crystals. Hawke reached out to it. Varric’s mouth went dry and the lyrium’s song was replaced by the rushing of his blood. She hesitated just as he worked desperately to move, to scream, to whisper. He was frozen. She plucked it from its resting place, and no one thought to remark on its shine, its glimmering perfection unmarred by even a speck of dust. She hefted it in her hand, and the spell was broken. It was just an artifact again, frightening only in the weight of gold it represented. Hawke studied it, frowning. 

“I thought it would be heavier,” she said.

Sunshine shook her head. “Heavy or not, don’t hold on to it too long. Normal lyrium’s incredibly poisonous, and that lyrium is the wrong color for normal.”

Bartrand held a hand out for it. “Lucky for us, I brought a damping satchel for things like this. I’ll keep it safe while you go further in.” 

Varric took it to pass to his brother. The moment it touched his skin the song exploded in him, high desire, naked hunger. His fingers whitened around its rough edges, and the song swelled. He wanted to live under it, serve it—

Hawke bumped him with her hip. The smooth warmth of her leathers on his arm broke the idol’s spell. He handed it to Bartrand in a fog, and blinked as the magic faded to nothing. Bartrand grasped the idol, looking on it like it was the world. Varric watched him go, too dazed from his own encounter with the idol to recognize the effect it had on his brother. Hawke and Anders had moved to the opposite door, arguing over the best way to pick the lock. Bethany chewed her lip and watched Varric, clearly concerned, but not ready to say so. None of them saw Bartrand reach out to swing the vault closed behind him. The sound of stone grating on stone dragged Bethany from her worry.

“The door!” she cried out.

Varric snapped out of his confusion. “Bartrand, wait!”

Bethany flew down the steps, but she wasn’t fast enough. The heavy door closed with a thud. Varric slammed into it, unbelieving. 

“Bartrand! The door! It’s shut behind you.”

Muffled laughter sounded from the other side. “Ah brother, you always did notice everything.”

“Wait. Are you serious? You’re going to screw me over for a lousy carving? We’re family! We’re the only family either of us has left!”

“It’s not just the idol,” Bartrand’s voice cracked. “The location of this thaig alone is worth a fortune. I’m not splitting that three ways.”

Varric kicked the door. “You wouldn’t be down here at all if it weren’t for us!”

“And for that, House Tethras thanks you.” Bartrand’s voice dripped with lazy menace. “We’ll be a major player again, Varric. So powerful, the kalna clans will bend over and beg us for it any time my cock so much as twitches.”

“Bartrand!” Varric’s voice was hoarse.

“Sorry, brother.” Bartrand voice trailed off. He didn’t sound sorry at all.

Varric threw himself against the door, screaming _no, no, no._ The solid stone absorbed his fury completely. He backed off and ran at it again, convinced that if he hit it just hard enough, in just the right way, his brother would come back for him. He did it again, and again, until strong arms caught him and held him fast. 

He screamed his brother’s name, his throat raw, his shoulder throbbing. Cool fingers laced through his hair. He buried his face into the hard leather of Hawke’s armor and felt his rage burn into an endless abyss. Silent sobs wracked his body in the crucible of her arms. She held him. His breathing steadied, broken by an intermittent hiccup. She held him. He rubbed the damp from his face with a rough palm. He closed his eyes, and wrapped his arms around her, and rested his cheek on her breast. 

She held him. She ran her fingers through his hair. Her scent, rose and sweet bay, leather and iron, filled his nose. Her heart beat softly in his ear, slow and strong and sure. He exhaled, long, and slow, and trembling, and released her. She softened her arms to let him sit back. He looked up, beyond her. Anders and Bethany had gone to the opposite door, flashes of light marking their attempts to open it. Hawke started to get to her feet, but he stopped her. She looked at him, waiting.

“Hawke,” he swallowed. “Fuck. I’m so… I knew he was a greedy bastard, but I never thought—”

“Never thought he’d leave his only brother to die in a vault?” She gave him a small smile. “I don’t think I can hold that against you, Varric.”

He scraped another stubborn tear from his eye. “Fuck,” he choked. He clenched his teeth and looked at her, struck by her optimism despite their suddenly dire circumstances. He got to his feet and strode to the stairs. “I swear, I will find that son of a bitch - sorry, Mother - and I will _kill_ him.”

Hawke followed him. “That’s the spirit.” He turned back to her. She smirked. “Repay attempted fratricide with effective fratricide, is what I always say.”

Varric sighed as he turned back and climbed the steps. “Let’s hope there’s a way out of here.”

The mages hadn’t been able to mark the first door. They had succeeded in melting the stone on the other one, however. They’d burned a hole around a locking mechanism, but the metal was impervious to magic. Hawke took a spare dagger from her pack and chiseled the softened stone away. Varric tried to reach in, but his thick fingers foiled him. He threw his tools down in a huff.

“I can do it,” Hawke said, gathering his picks. “Walk me through.”

He did, and after only a few more minutes, the tumblers clicked into place. They slid the bolt back and dragged the heavy door open, and were met with a breath of fresh, cold air. Hawke shivered.

“Looks like we’re cut off from the lava channels here,” Varric said. “Hope someone brought their blankie along.”

Sunshine lifted a distinctively dwarven pack. “Your brother was thoughtful enough to leave us his bag,” she said. “Food, tools, bolts, and a single bedroll. Lucky for us, the best outfitter in Kirkwall specializes in human sizes.”

They looked out at the long, grim hallway. The red lyrium’s song was weaker here, though it still tingled at the back of his mind. He shivered. Anders hadn’t felt the darkspawn since before their encounter with the dragon, but everyone’s skin prickled with the undimmed hostility of the ancient thaig. They were not welcome. Sunshine passed a waterskin and apples around, and they drank and ate on their feet. The water settled his stomach, and the fruit calmed it. He huffed a laugh as he tossed his apple core back into the red vault. Feed the beast, soothe its temper. Rage and grief still colored his thoughts, but at least he was functional again.

The first hall emptied into another, with a closed door to the left and a corner leading to who knew where on the right. Hawke knelt before the door to pick the lock.

Sunshine sighed. “What are you doing, Hawke?” 

Hawke tossed a grin over her shoulder. “Locked door. What’s behind a locked door?”

Everyone groaned. “Loot,” they said as one.

“Loot!” Hawke agreed brightly, popping the lock and stepping inside.

An unholy screech lifted the hairs from the back of Varric’s neck. A pool of shades flowed around Hawke. She dropped a smoke bomb and vanished as Sunshine called her firestorm down on the writhing dark. More shades slipped from the stone room, trailing their tattered cloth over several dusty chests lining the back wall. Hawke dodged two entangling her in their razor-tipped fingers and leapt to a third, shredding it as she fell. 

Bianca tore through shades as the mages bounced a stone golem between them, trading fire and ice as the thing ground in slow circles. Two shades broke away from Hawke to slither toward Varric. He fixed Bianca’s bayonet.

“Come on then, you bastards,” he snarled, igniting the fury at his brother’s betrayal. “Come get some.”

They reached to him with their black talons. He whirled away, slashing with short, vicious strokes as he went. One shade wailed and disappeared, but the other caught his duster in its long, bony fingers. Varric stabbed ineffectively with his blade, for the shade’s reach was long, and his was not. It picked him up to leer at him, black on black, a malicious intelligence gleaming under the robes. Varric sneered back. 

“Hot tip,” he said, retracting the bayonet. “Picking up dwarves is bad for your health.”

He put three rapid fire bolts through the thing’s head. It shuddered and dropped him, wisping away into the void. He brushed the ichor from his hands and looked around. Hawke had taken care of the shades, but that Maker damned golem was still up and giving everyone trouble. 

He holstered Bianca to draw his dagger. Hawke caught his eye and nodded to the mages, who looked about tapped out. The golem ground implacably toward Anders. She blitzed toward it just as Bethany released a weak blast of ice. Her momentum knocked it into the frozen ground, sliding it straight toward him. She carved with the hilt of her dagger as they went, bits of rock falling from the massive body to tumble away. Varric caught it and hurled himself up, working with her to scratch the glowing runes from the stone. It crumbled around them, and fell to an inanimate heap before they reached the wall.

He stood with a groan, slapping dust from his clothes and inspecting himself for injuries. The shades had gotten him good a few times, a four fingered scratch that bled freely across his chest, another dripping down his cheek. Hawke looked winded, but unharmed. He offered his hand and she shook her head, content to lie on the rocks. Sunshine and Blondie knelt before one of the chests. He walked over to them.

“Say, could one of you help me out with this?” He looked down.

The mages looked at each other, and Anders stood. His fingers trembled slightly as they pressed against Varric’s chest, but the cool healing magic found the torn and bleeding skin and knit it together with a sigh. He sank to his knees, and Varric knelt beside him. He rummaged through his brother’s satchel. 

“Here,” he said, holding out a small container.

Anders took it and popped the top. They both looked inside. Cured fish, olives, and soft cheese floated in spiced oil. Blondie raised an eyebrow, but Varric just handed him a long, thin fork and clapped him on the shoulder. He walked to another chest and popped it open. Dusty rings and daggers lay on the bottom, along with more of the ancient coins. He pocketed the coin and dumped the rest, then turned it upside down. Hawke had found a maul in one of her chests. Varric picked it up, tested the weight and balance, and took it to his overturned chest. 

“Noise,” he said with a grin, and brought the maul down onto the chest with all his remaining strength. It shattered into a dozen pieces of splintered wood and rusted iron strap.

Bethany scowled at him. “What in Andraste’s name—” 

“Firewood,” he said, gathering it into a small pile. “Room’s closed up but the vents are still working, and I don’t fancy dying of cold after everything else that hasn’t killed me.”

Hawke shook her head, grinning. They piled their loot in one corner and broke up the remaining chests. Soon, a cheerful fire crackled in the center of the room. The bedroll was spread opposite the only door, and the only door was locked securely against the rest of the thaig. They washed as best they could and went through their provisions, separating what would keep from what needed to be eaten. They shared a loaf of bread slathered with the spiced oil from Anders’ container, and a wedge of waxed cheese. Hawke passed around the last of her pastries. They saved the alcohol.

Sunshine and Blondie offered to take first watch, and Varric handed them his cards. He eyed the lone bedroll. Hawke saw him doing it. He grinned at her.

“Dibs,” he said, a twinkle in his eye.

“Hmph. Don’t dwarves make a habit of sleeping on stone?”

“Only the nug humping fools down here,” he replied. “But I could be convinced to share…”

She scoffed. “You’ll be voluntold to share, serah.” She shook out a dusty old robe from the pile of loot. “This will do for a cover, but there’s no cushion at all.”

He shrugged. “Fine. But no hand holding this time.”

She laughed, and they shucked off their stiff outer layers. Soon they were down to soft tunics and leggings, and he was relieved at how natural it seemed. She arranged her long limbs beside him, near enough to feel the heat of her, not so near as to touch. She flicked the dusty robe over them and curled up beneath it, brushing his hip with her… that was her ass. A shiver ran down his spine, but he was too wrung out from the day to feel anything more. He sighed and rolled over, careful not to take the robe-blanket with him. Sunshine and Blondie murmured over their cards, refreshed from the meal, stealing glances toward the bedroll every few minutes. He rolled his eyes as they closed.

He woke to cold bands around his chest. He gasped in the dark, struggling to find breath, arms clenched, shoulders tight with terror. He curled on himself and didn’t notice his back moving on something warm and soft, something that shifted and became softer still. Gentle fingers ran down his taut spine, and warm breath puffed on the back of his neck. He couldn’t breathe. The fingers spread and a palm smoothed his rumpled tunic, pressing into his corded muscle. The hand went down, came up beneath the tunic to rest on his skin. It slid beneath the cloth, warm and rough, around his side, ticklish, up his belly, to rest on his chest. Her arm pressed his back against her, into the yielding flesh of her breasts, into the hard planes of her belly, into the hinge at her hips, until they were tight against each other. Her breathing steadied his. Her warmth melted the bands. Her breath hushed against his ears, slowing his queasy mind. 

“It’s okay,” she murmured. “You’re okay, you’re okay, shh, you’re okay.”

He sighed, shuddering. “It’s not okay,” he whispered back. “Nothing is okay.”

“It will be,” she said. “It’s not okay, but it will be.”

“How can you be so _sure_,” he hissed. “How can you, stuck under a mountain, with so little left?”

“Because.” A sigh. “We have so much to look forward to.” She stroked his chest with her thumb. “We’ll find a way out of here, string your treasonous brother up by his toenails, and become the filthy rich, shamelessly hedonistic nobles we were born to be.”

He was quiet for a moment, clenching his teeth against the fear. She pressed her lips against his back and tightened her arm. He let out a long breath.

“Twelve-course meals at your family estate?” he asked.

“Fifteen at least. With half the Rose on the guest list.”

“Your mother will have kittens.”

“She’s not invited to that one.”

Varric chuckled. He laced his fingers in hers. She shifted to lay her lips on his shoulder. He sighed. Bianca’s frown tugged at his memory, but Bartrand’s awestruck gob muddied with it and they morphed into a grotesque vision of braided beard and heaving breasts. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing them both away, focusing on every place Hawke pressed against him. His brother and lover receded, exorcised by the warmth of the woman who held him.

“Okay,” he said. “But I’m holding you to it.”

She laughed softly. “Go to sleep, Varric. I can’t hold lavish dinner parties without my beauty rest.”

He breathed them in, dust from the caves, an iron tang of dried blood, the warm, musty scent of unwashed hair. It should have been a bad combination. It wasn’t. He closed his eyes, and slept the sleep of the dreamless.

…

Sleep. Varric couldn’t sleep. He rubbed his numb face with rough hands and stared into the fire with burning eyes. The kid had been by earlier, but he’d practically thrown the plate of eggs and toast on the table after one look at him. Varric looked at the eggs again, long gone cold. He wasn’t done yet. They weren’t safe yet. Maybe if he could change his memory, he could change the story… no. Bethany deserved better than that. Anders… he probably deserved worse. Varric’s attention drifted back into the fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, somewhere in my internet history there's a website that says meadowbright is another name for coneflower, aka echinacea. Can I find it again? No. Someone trademarked a variety of echinacea as Meadowbright™ and that's the only thing that shows up when you search for it. It does tickle me that Meadowbright™ is a dwarf variety, though.
> 
> And, what the heck is up with the idol scene in the game?  
"BARTRAND THIS COULD BE WORTH A FORTUNE"  
_(flings delicate carving through the air like it's a damn frisbee)_
> 
> Like, what the hell, Varric? Is it as valuable if it's in pieces? It's lyrium and lyrium _canonically explodes for no reason,_ so is it as valuable if YOU'RE in pieces? I'm not an expert in precious artifacts from lost civilizations but PROBABLY NO.


	9. The Study of Stress on Load-Bearing Structures

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another 7k+ monster. I don't know what happened, but I hope you're somewhere comfy!

Varric sighed. It was a weary sigh, and it smelled of alkaline dust and unbrushed teeth. It went on forever, this sigh, this bone-tired, aching muscle sigh, this exhalation of pure, unadulterated, done-with-the-bullshit weariness. Angry rocks glowed before them in the lyrium cracked chamber, ribs traced in light, stone shards for limbs. He hefted Bianca. Hawke barreled through their ice-weakened stone, and it did not reform after shattering. They went down fast but ancestor’s balls, there were a lot of them. One turned from his fellows and stumped toward Varric. He backed up the steps that had brought them down here, right into a pool of shades.

“Ah, hi there,” he said, looking for a way out. “Have we met? I feel like we’ve met.”

The shades reached for him, screeching and hungry. He ducked and barreled straight through the rock creature, knocking it aside as his sure feet flew down the shallow steps. Hawke appeared at his back.

“Tough crowd,” she said.

He grunted. “Yeah. It’s absolutely dead in here.”

He felt her chuckle, and between the two of them they tore the rest of the shades and stones to pieces. The mages brushed dust from their robes as Hawke knelt to unlock an ornate chest. Varric scoured the broken room for salvageable bolts, keen to save what he could as he had no idea when his next chance to buy more would be. Several had dulled heads thanks to the sheer amount of stone in the place. He’d have to borrow Hawke’s whetstone next time they stopped to rest. He checked under the massive boulders along the walls, and found a neat handful in a hole that looked like it had been punched by a giant. Red lyrium grew thick in the rubble and twined around the cracked columns like vines. The high, sweet song threaded into his thoughts and tinged them crimson. They pressed on.

More of the strange golems appeared, only these jogged a memory. 

“Rock wraiths!” he shouted, laughing.

“You what?” Hawke asked.

“These things, they’re exactly like the rock wraiths in my mother’s nursery rhymes. Bloody flames, I thought they were a myth.”

Hawke brought the hilt of her dagger down on one Bethany had frozen. It exploded into razor shards and more sodding dust.

“Seem pretty real to me,” she said. “Did your mother know any lullabies about hidden vineyards? Strawberry fields in the depths?” She feinted through the battle to a shade and plunged her daggers into its back. It wisped away.

“If she did, she kept them to herself,” he said. “Far as I can recall, her songs were all about what happened to bad little dwarf children who ran away from their parents.”

Sunshine laughed as she rolled away from a wraith’s wild swing. She popped up next to Anders. “Did our mothers know each other?”

Blondie sighed as he froze it solid. “That’s all mothers. They do worry so.”

Hawke crashed down on the frozen wraith, shattering it. “Too bad. I could really go for a bowl of fresh strawberries and cream right now.”

Varric holstered Bianca as it fell. “Ah. That’s just the scurvy talking.”

They looted the piles of rubble and pools of ichor, and they went on clearing the halls of restless dead, until— 

“Varric, what is that?” Hawke pointed to a pile of rocks far larger than what they’d encountered. It drew itself up before them.

“Mother didn’t teach me the whole damn taxonomy, Hawke. Only so many words rhyme with wraith.”

“Hm. Faith, strafe, saith… swaythe—”

“Hm-m.” Varric shook his head. “That last one? Not a word.”

Sunshine cleared her throat. “Ah, guys?”

“Swaythe? Sure it is. It’s what thou doest with thine partner at the—”

“Hawke that’s not even—”

“Guys!”

Sunshine’s fingers crackled with ice. Hawke and Varric stopped bickering long enough to look up at the giant wraith. It looked at them, and spoke. It said it was different, that the other wraiths were under its protection, that they wouldn’t strike out again. Its words were soothing and persuasive, and it promised their hearts’ desire. Blondie narrowed his eyes.

“It’s a demon,” he said. “Feeding on their hunger. I can feel it.”

The demon looked at him. “I would not see my feast end.”

“Don’t do it, Hawke,” he said. “Demons will trip you up, every time.”

Hawke grinned. “I grew up with mages, Anders, but thank you for making this an easy decision.”

She rushed the giant wraith-demon, daggers out, and slashed its unprotected center. It coiled and faded, and every wraith it had held back descended on them. They scythed through the restless echoes, well-versed in their weaknesses after a full day of fighting them. Hawke held up a hand when the last one fell.

“Break,” she huffed. “I’m hungry, and my blades don’t even remember having an edge after hitting rocks all day.”

They picked through the stones, though the pickings were slim. A chest coughed up some leather boots that didn’t match Hawke’s armor. Sunshine sat down to take them apart, saving the laces and leather scraps, leaving the soles. Hawke found another low stone and sat to work on her blades, smoothing the nicks from the edge, honing them back to razor sharpness. Varric used her tools on the worst of his bolts, grinding the heads back to a lethal shine. They had a quick meal of dried meat and the last of the apples, and pressed on. The long, low halls were thick with shades and wraiths, red lyrium and its keening wail, crumbled stone, piles of dust. 

“Varric.” Hawke stopped at the top of a narrow flight of stairs. “You’ll want to see this.”

He huffed up the stairs to her side. She was right, he did want to see this. A massive vault opened before them, four thick pillars stretching into the dark, their grey sides laced with pulsing stems of the red lyrium. Three walls had collapsed in, and piles of scree and huge boulders were scattered through the hall like broken toys in the world’s worst nursery. 

“It’s the main vault,” he said, awed at the scope of the place. They walked into the chamber, taking in the craftsmanship of the ancient stonemasons, the dust and destruction of the passing years. Varric pointed to the remains of a stone table. “The dwarves would have brought—”

The sound of scraping stone echoed through the chamber. They turned slowly, and watched as red power drew towering stones from a formerly unremarkable pile, shaping them into another wraith. A massive wraith, pulsing that same crimson as the lyrium. 

“Oh, shit,” Varric said dumbly, “who invited him?”

The red wraith followed them with its eyeless face as they shrank from it. Hawke lingered a bit too long, a bit too near, and the thing brought its huge stone hand down on her. It hit the broken tile with a thunderous crash, a plume of dust and shards spewing from the impact. 

_“Hawke!”_ Varric’s wild scream tore through the cavern. “Where’s Hawke?”

A warm, solid arm wrapped around him and drew him behind a pillar. “Varric,” she said, “You were worried. I’m touched.”

He gaped at her, dusty and vibrating with bloodlust, but whole. He crushed her to his chest, breath wisping her hair, face buried into her neck. Her arms circled his shoulders, her fingers wove through his hair. She kissed his cheek as she released him. 

“To be continued,” she said with a smirk, and leapt into the fray.

The mages hit the thing with all their strength, trading fire and ice, lightning and frost. Chips flew where they hit stone, and sparks flew from the lines of power connecting it. Hawke kept her distance, darting in as it raised its massive arm, feinting behind as it slammed into the floor, keeping it distracted while the others whittled it down.

Varric landed a lucky shot with an explosive bolt, hitting a fault line in the wraith’s stone leg. It shattered and the monster stumbled, but his victory shout was cut short. The red light swirled into a ball, dragging the stone with it into a turbulent sphere that seemed to shrink as it grew. Anders gave a shout and dove behind a pillar, and the others followed just in time. Sound crashed on them like a living weight, enormous and oppressive, a foghorn of the damned. Red light filled the room in jagged shafts of death, and the ceiling flashed crimson. Varric looked up to see the carvings, the story of this forgotten thaig. He shuddered. These dwarves were not his people. His people might insufferable, but they weren’t the monsters depicted above.

There was no time to dwell. The light cut out, and Hawke gave a vicious battle cry. The wraith’s stone armor had fallen into a pile, and its red form was vulnerable. It had called other wraiths, and he and the mages turned to them. Hawke leapt onto the red wraith, carving through the lines that reformed more faintly each time she severed them. The last minor wraith fell and they focused on the giant, fire and ice in turn, every enchanted bolt Varric had in his quiver. It didn’t last. The light reached for the stones again, drew them back onto its body, and cleared the ground with another swipe of its arm. Hawke rolled out of reach.

The battle dragged on, the red wraith calling on an endless supply of ancient rage, each fragment chipped from the stone stoking its fury. Hawke wedged a blade into a deep crevice and twisted, shattering the leg and her dagger at once. Again the wraith stumbled and drew itself into a sphere of rock and raw hate. Hawke dove to the sanctuary of the nearest pillar, Varric and Anders to another. Bethany stood in the open, conjuring a massive fireball.

“Beth!” Hawke screamed. “Cover! Stop casting and get to—”

The red blast scoured the room. Bethany was knocked to the side, the fire of her spell whiffed away. Anders staggered out to pull her to the safety of the stone column. Varric hovered over him, needing and not wanting to see what that awful power had done. Her eyes were closed and her skin was burned, as though she’d spent a full day in the sun. Her breath was shallow and steady but her hand… the hand holding her staff had been cauterized to the shaft. She coughed gently, and a tiny wisp of black rose from her lips. Anders shuddered as his hands glowed over her, burning away whatever corruption she’d endured. 

The blast winked out and Hawke blitzed through the red light to her sister’s side. Varric saw the crimson sphere shudder and fade, just for a second, but he couldn’t exploit it while the summoned wraiths swarmed them. He pulled the cork from a booster and downed it, shaking his head with the taste and the chemical strength that flowed through him. Bianca shattered the restless dead while Bethany laid on the cold stone floor, her lover and sister holding her. The last wraith fell, and the massive stones began jumping back onto the red form. Varric backed away. 

“Guys,” he called, “a little help?”

Hawke rounded the pillar, eyes dry, mouth grim. She barreled into the red form, buckling it at what should have been knees. It rounded on her, clearly wounded but all the more dangerous for it. Its swings became wild, unpredictable, and Hawke was hit more than once as she channeled her fury into her remaining blade and the hilt of her broken dagger. Varric whistled and she looked up, distant and cold. Hawke wasn’t here right now. He lifted the dagger from his shoulder, both fist weapon and sturdy blade. She dropped her broken dagger and he flipped it to her. She caught it, the hilt thick and clumsy in her hand but she’d make do. 

Anders stepped out moments later clutching his staff, drained and pale. He screamed a wordless challenge and the thing turned to him. Varric would have sworn later it was gloating. Anders raced to it with his staff trailing, and as the wraith raised its arms to crush him he dropped low to come up beneath it, thrusting his staff into the very center of the red, pulsing mass. It seized, the whirling stones shuddering to a halt as the light arced in sickening twists around the bladed staff. The stones fell. Anders was hit and crumpled to the ground as the red light gathered into a ball once more. Hawke sheathed her daggers and ran to him, scooped him up and dragged him behind the pillar just as the red power exploded through the room. She laid him carefully beside her sister. Blood ran freely from a gash in his scalp. Varric pressed the bone around it gingerly, and found no weakness. He shook his head at Hawke, and she nodded. Varric tore another piece of cloth from his ragged sash, doused it in alcohol, and pressed it against the wound. Anders didn’t move. The unearthly light faded, and Hawke stood to face the beast.

Smaller wraiths moved slowly toward her, but she paid them no mind. She reached into her pack and brought out something small and glowing blue, and Varric’s breath caught to see the cabochon from the Qunari rod. She looked at it, then at the red pulsing mass before her. She walked toward it slowly, measuring her pace to arrive at the crucial moment when it unfurled. It did, reaching out to the stones that were its home and its prison. She thrust the blue stone into the very center of the red sphere.

White light blinded him. A soft whump of incredible power deafened his ears, and he saw the shadow of a body fly across the room. Stones clattered to the ground as the restless dead burned away. Anders shivered awake, wincing from the sting of the cloth on his torn skin. The light faded. Varric replaced his hand with Anders’, and stumbled from the protection of the pillar. The red light was gone, not only from the wraith, but from all the lyrium in the place. It gleamed darkly from the walls, dirty grey and depleted. The only light remaining was blue, the gem Hawke had used. It shone like a beacon from the pile of rock, lighting the cavern in a celestial hue. 

He scanned the room, numb. A shift of rock and a puff of dust brought him running to Hawke’s side. He lifted a stone shard from her shoulders and checked her everywhere for blood and broken places. She was, aside from the usual scrapes and bruises, miraculously unhurt. He rested his forehead on hers.

“Hawke…”

“Yeah yeah, don’t do that to you again.” She laughed weakly. “We need new hobbies.”

He shook his head and pulled her to her feet. They went to Anders and Bethany, awake and clinging to each other. Anders had healed her hand, but the burn remained and her skin was beginning to crack. Varric placed the back of his hand against her, needing to know if she was still hot. She wasn’t. Hawke gently separated them and plied Anders with food and drink while Varric dug through the provisions. He found a pot of tallow near the last loaf of bread, cracked the seal, and began spreading it on the worst of her injuries. Anders watched as Hawke fed him, desperate to help. Hawke moved to block his view.

“You can’t pour from an empty cup, Anders. Eat. Varric is taking care of her the old fashioned way for now.” 

Anders slumped and accepted another strip of dried beef.

Varric finished smoothing the tallow onto Bethany’s wounds and capped it. He rubbed the precious grease into his own skin before replacing it and taking the loaf of bread out. He broke it and found a small flask of vivid green olive oil, scooped the soft insides out and poured the oil into the crust. He tore a small piece from the soft bread and dipped it into the oil, and held it up to Bethany’s lips. She parted them to accept it, then pressed the morsel to the roof of her mouth and let it dissolve. Her eyes closed as he fed her more, each tiny bite the work of several minutes. 

After some time, Anders was recovered enough to see to her. He looked on her like a man lost, bowed his head, and set to work. Varric’s skin prickled to see the cool healing light pass from his hands to knit the cracks closed, the jagged edges weeping, sealing with a sigh. Her rough, reddened skin paled under his touch, drinking the tallow in with a thirst as he coaxed the tissues to repair themselves. She looked radiant by the time he slumped away from her.

Hawke caught him and laid him onto the bedroll she’d taken out. She turned to Varric.

“Looks like we’ll be here a while,” she said.

He grunted. “Long as we leave before the light does. What made you think of the Qunari gem, anyway?”

Hawke stared into the beam. “The mage, Sarebaas. Sarebaas said it would contain the evil of the world. That… thing, nearly killed my sister. The demon said these wraiths, the profane, they feasted on the gods until all they knew was hunger.” She shrugged. “Counts as evil in my book.”

“Can’t argue with that,” he said. “I happened to take a gander at the carvings on the ceiling while we were hiding from it.” He shuddered. “I think this is the lost Valdasine thaig.” She looked at him. It didn’t mean anything to her. “Stuff of legends,” he said. “An entire thaig, the original lyrium miners. They sealed the doors one day, no one in or out. Several weeks later it opened, but not a soul was left. All they found was a staff of an unknown material, frozen to the touch, and it whispered the death of hope. They left the staff and sealed the doors, and in time the thaig was forgotten. Others learned to mine the lyrium, and trade went on.”

Hawke whistled. “The seal was broken before we got here,” she said. “Wonder who else has been down here, and what they’ve been doing.”

Varric shook his head. “Let’s think about that later. Much later. Preferably at the Hanged Man with a pint of bitter and a joint of roast, while people who are _not us_ strip this place of its valuables.”

She nodded, then rose to check on their patients. Both rested, if not comfortably, at least peacefully. She poked through the piles of rubble, finding an occasional gem or reagent. The red wraith had a dagger to replace the one she’d broken, the metal strange and humming, though it didn’t sing as the lyrium did. She tossed Varric’s dagger back to him and slipped the new one into the sheath. They walked across the broken tile to a faint golden glow.

“Well.” Hawke sighed. “This is shockingly small for the amount of bullshit we went through to get here.”

Varric had to agree. While it was piled with the golden coins and cramped with chests, the room was half the size of his chambers at the Hanged Man. He rubbed his brow.

“Let’s take the best and leave everything else for the hirelings. The key should be in here somewhere, too.”

Hawke pushed a stack of coins aside. “Look right?” She held up a plain brass key.

“No idea. Try it out.”

She left. He poked around in the chests, and the last one opened reluctantly. A staff fell into his hands. He dropped it with a start. It was cold, so cold, and was that singing? He shook his head and stared at it. The craftsmanship was clearly dwarven, but the proportions were not. The red lyrium had been carved into flames at either end, and the shaft was made from the same humming metal as Hawke’s new dagger. Everything about it was wrong. Dwarves didn’t make staves, because dwarves couldn’t use magic. Lyrium couldn’t be carved or held, and yet here was carved lyrium on a weapon meant to be worn and used. A pike stuck out below the head, spotless and razor sharp, and the finial was fashioned of a carved jawbone from a creature he’d never laid eyes on. He shivered. Two things were certain; this was the staff of the Valdasine, and it was staying the fuck here.

Hawke jogged back with a tired smile on her face. “It worked,” she said, “door opens up right where we began. We’ve made a full circle.” She stopped. “Varric. What is that.”

He popped it up with his toe, caught it in his hand, and threw it like a javelin into the deepest, darkest part of the chamber. It clattered into the shadow, the uncanny metal shrieking as it slid from view.

“It belongs to the dead,” he muttered. “Let them keep it.”

Hawke looked at him, picked up on his deep unease, and turned back into the golden room. They filled one sack with coin and another with gems, and returned to the convalescents resting side by side. They shared a waterskin, careful to take only enough to dull the edge of their thirst. The camp had been emptied in a hurry, she said, they were likely to find things forgotten and half used in the rush. The trip back to the surface would be moderately quicker with only four of them, though they weren’t nearly as safe on their own. He tried not to think about that. The beacon began to dim, and they woke Anders and Bethany before it could go out.

They moved into the entry hall and built a small fire atop the cold ashes of their previous camp. Hawke found another bedroll, worn and smelling of cheap alcohol. She went to wash it in the stream, and fill a few waterskins besides. Varric watched Bethany, dazed from her injuries, as she stared into the fire. Anders joined them, still pale and shaking, but alert. He watched Bethany as well, concern in his delicate features.

“She responded well to the healing,” he said, “but that kind of trauma… her mind may have—”

“I’m fine, dear,” she said into the fire. “Just tired.”

“Maker, it’s good to hear your voice,” Varric said. She lifted her shoulders in a slight shrug. He looked over the former campsite, surprised at the obvious disarray the expedition had left in. There were greasy embers and tapped kegs scattered throughout the grand hall. He barked a laugh, and the two mages looked at him. “Smells like the Hanged Man in here,” he said.

They both sniffed, and nodded with wan smiles. Varric inhaled the welcome stink of spilled ale and burned meat, and for the first time since his bastard brother locked them into the thaig, felt the flame of real hope. They were getting out of there alive.

Bethany sighed. “How long to the surface, Varric?”

“If we’re unlucky, maybe a week.”

“And if we’re lucky?”

“We stumble over Bartrand’s corpse on the way back.”

She hummed. “That would be a fitting end, however unlikely.”

A chill settled in Varric’s gut. Sunshine had never been so glum, even when they first arrived in Kirkwall. He caught Anders’ eye, and the man gave him a nearly imperceptible nod. He saw it too. Varric took the dusty robe from their pack and settled it over her shoulders.

“Any darkspawn around, Blondie?” Anders paused, and shook his head. “This much rubbish will have drawn nugs by now, and I think we could all use a hot meal. I’ll be back in an hour or two.”

He heard Anders settle closer to Bethany as he left, and had to push away the vision of her lying on the stone, burned and broken. He shook his head, filling it too full of Hawke’s knowing grin as he pulled the shard of stone from her shoulders to leave room for worry. She could have pushed it off herself, but she’d waited for him to rescue her. He huffed, amused. She played him like a lute, plucking his strings, making him sing her melody. 

The tunnels grew close, broken rock reaching for his arms, snagging his duster. He stopped to listen. Water rushed distantly, the stream Hawke washed in even now. Air moved through the ancient vents, a moan, a whistle. He sniffed carefully, the cold, damp stone, the burnt match sulfur, somewhere further in, the animal reek of fresh scat. He drew Bianca and followed his nose.

He rejoined them with a bounty, two full-grown nugs and a yearling. He’d done the nasty bits of butchering where they fell, the bleeding, the gutting, the de-handing. Humans had an aversion to their little four fingered hands, and his humans had been through enough for one day. More than. Hawke rescued a spit from one of the old campfires, and they set the yearling to roast. Varric cut the grown nugs into their joints, then set to work cutting thin strips of flesh across the grain as Hawke lit a smoky fire and found an empty keg to fit over it. They rigged a makeshift rack with the rib bones, covered it with the keg, and set the meat to cure.

“Takes about ten hours for the meat to break down and dry out,” Varric said. “So let’s bunk down here for now. I’ll take first watch. Hawke, sleep. Blondie says there’s no darkspawn, and I didn’t come across any sign of stalkers on my walk.”

Hawke shook her head. “We should both—”

He cut her off. “You’re no good to me exhausted. Sleep in your armor if it makes you feel better.”

She wrinkled her nose at him, but she did bed down on her new roll and was snoring in minutes. Anders helped Bethany to Bartrand’s roll, and Varric handed him the robe when he laid down beside her. A stab of fond jealousy struck him as they shifted to fit into each other’s curves. He glanced at Hawke, remembering how her weight pressed on him, her breath on his neck, her fingers laced in his. He doused the warmth with a firm reminder of what waited for them on the surface. This time below with her was a dream, if that’s what dreams were. He didn’t know. He couldn’t dream. 

He sat before a low stone with his cards and dealt a game of demon’s grip, one of the last solo games he had yet to master. Nothing went bump in the night.

…

The Seeker hadn’t come for him. Likely chasing down the leads he’d peppered into his story, the Warden connection, the list of hirelings from the expedition he’d kept for some Maker forsaken reason. He picked up an apple, left that morning by the boy. He bit into it, realizing he hadn’t eaten one since their return. He couldn’t see them without thinking of Sunshine. She’d loved apples. He wondered if she still did.

…

They spent nearly a full day recovering in the main hall. Hawke and Varric scavenged several useful items from the abandoned camp, and they went to the stream in pairs to wash the grime of the last few days from their gear and themselves. They started back on the trail in earnest, muffling their steps as best they could to stay under the notice of whatever had slunk back since the passing of the expedition. Anders found a clutch of deep mushrooms on the second day, and Varric prepared and sauteed them as best he could. It wasn’t good enough, and they lost several hours to severe stomach distress. 

“Varric,” Hawke gasped after vomiting bile for the fifth time, “fuck… mushrooms and fuck… you.”

He groaned. “Should have known better than trust me with this, urgh, dwarfy shit.”

Bethany slumped beside them. “Guys. I don’t feel so good.”

Hawke belched. “Tell it to the jury. Your boyfriend found these things.”

Anders held up a finger. “I’ve eaten scores of deep mushrooms,” he moaned, “your dwarf said he could make them.”

“I said I’d try!” Varric protested. “And what do you mean, _her_ dwarf? I’m, ugh, oh no—” he rolled over and barely managed to not puke on his boots.

After several more rounds of finger pointing broken up with spates of vomiting, they all managed to keep a few mouthfuls of water down and move on with shaky legs. They passed through tunnels and open chambers, glad to be back on the Deep Roads despite the constant threat of darkspawn. They came to the sealed fortress on the third night.

Hawke looked up at the monumental stone kings. “Think this is still locked up?”

“Bartrand would never leave something like this to chance,” Varric said. “We should rest here, maybe grab a few things he hasn’t taken yet.”

They opened the towering gates just enough to slip through, and locked them securely. The castle loomed above them, carved entirely from the overhanging stone, its sides unmarked and flowing, marred only with a low forest of stalagmites where wall met ground. The grand hall was lit with undying torches, their eerie blue light a welcome change from lava orange and the crimson of the red thaig. Ragged tapestries still hung on the inner walls, and the walls themselves were a dense blond stone, smooth as glass. 

They climbed the long, curving stair up to the second level where much of the treasure was held in lavish bedchambers long given to dust. Sunshine and Blondie claimed a room overlooking the cavern, rolling out the formerly luxurious bedroll that had been much crushed and abused with four people sharing it. Hawke looked over the hall from a balcony, squinting at the opposite tapestry and trying to read what little the ages had left of it. Varric stood beside her.

“Have you chosen a room, Hawke?”

She shook her head. “I’ll take first watch. You choose. Figure out which one’s the best with your Stone sense.”

He flushed, hesitated, his heart thumping in his chest. A dream. This was a dream. He’d wake when they reached the surface. “We don’t need to set a watch here, Hawke. This place has held against the darkspawn since the First Blight. We’re safe. Choose a room. I won’t know which is the best until you do.”

She turned to look at him. He returned her gaze, his ears burning, his hands deep in his pockets. She saw the heat in his eyes, the dilated pupils, the pop of muscle at his jaw. She heard what he wasn’t saying. A muffled giggle came from the front room, and her neck flushed. She held out her hand. He took it. She led him across the elevated walkway to a corner room, one with two doors. She gave him the plain bedroll. He unlaced it fully, its surface suitable for two. She removed her armor as he worked, unlacing, sliding it down, until it made a small pile along a wall. She turned to him in her linens, soft and graceful. His mouth went dry when she knelt before him, reaching for Bianca’s harness. He leaned Bianca against the wall next to her armor, and let her unbind him. 

The harness slid from his shoulders, followed by his duster. She pulled the boots from his feet and pulled the tattered remains of his sash from his waist, tearing it further. His breath came fast, stuttering each time her fingers grazed him. She sat back on her heels and tilted her head quizzically, cutting her eyes to the crossbow resting on the wall.

“Won’t she be jealous?” she asked.

Bianca’s pale features swam up before him, angry and pained, her full breasts heaving with suppressed sobs. The last time he’d seen her. But now her blue eyes flashed in Bartrand’s pinched face, her delicate mouth in the red, braided beard. They told him he’d never be enough, he’d never amount to anything. They tore Varric’s ring from the box and threw it at him, told him this was how it had to be, told him to grow up already and face reality. He pressed his palms into his eyes until the white spots blotted out his past. He let them drop to look at her.

“I won’t tell if you don’t,” he said, his voice rough.

Hawke chewed on her lip. “Varric… we don’t have to, if you’ll regret it later. I don’t want to be another one of your regrets.”

He laughed sadly. “What do you know about my regrets, Hawke?”

“Enough,” she said. “Enough to know that I’d eat a serving of those horrible mushrooms with every meal before adding to them.”

“Maker damn me for a fool,” he said. “I really thought…”

She shook her head. “Your brother betrayed you and left you for dead. We’ve been stuck underground for a fortnight fighting monsters from nursery rhymes and going crazy for lack of sunlight and fresh air. We’re half-starved, filthy, hopped up on stims and magic, and we’re traveling with the world’s most uninhibited couple.” She chuckled. “None of us are exactly at our best. Now take those leather trousers off and come to bed.”

He did. She drew a ragged blanket over them and cupped his body with hers, as she had each night since the first. He still woke hours later, fighting for air and frozen in fear. She was there, shushing, murmuring, her hand over his heart, her breath on his neck. She soothed him back to sleep, and as he slipped from wakefulness, he wondered again what he’d do without her when they reached the surface. 

They rose to Anders’ heartsick wail. Hawke kicked the blanket off and was halfway down the hall before Varric could roll over. He grabbed Bianca and followed at a trot. He arrived looking for danger. He found himself readjusting his expectations. Hawke was kneeling at their bedroll, holding Bethany’s hand and looking at her with grave concern. Anders paced the room, hair wild, his loose linen shift trailing behind him.

“What’s—”

Sunshine turned to him. “Blight,” she said. “Anders sensed it in me. I haven’t felt right since the mushrooms, but I didn’t realize…”

Anders made a strangled sound through his teeth. “I should have known, should have seen! Wardens are immune, that’s why I could, but she couldn’t! Oh, Maker!”

Hawke didn’t look at him. “Anders thinks it happened when she was hit by the red wraith. It’s the only time any of us was… compromised, enough for the Blight to take root.”

Varric looked from Bethany to Anders. “Wardens are immune…”

Anders stopped and stared at him. “Yes. Of course! Oh, Varric, you’re brilliant. The maps. I stole the maps from Wardens thinking they were looking for me, but they were planning their own journey through the Deep Roads. We can find them. Bethany, my heart, it’s the only way.”

Varric found himself more confused, rather than less. Hawke looked at Blondie, a touch disgusted. 

“Grey Wardens,” she said. “With supplies and men. Here, in the Deep Roads.” He frowned. “Way to keep it to yourself, Anders.”

“It wasn’t relevant until now! They would have dragged me back if I gave them half a chance!”

Bethany looked at him. “I understand, my love, but… you ran away from them. You’ve said they were nearly as bad as the Circle. Isn’t there any other way?”

He shook his head, pain in his delicate face. “You’ll die from this, Beth. Becoming a Warden is a horrible, painful trial, a hard life. If you survive the joining, though… you’ll be cured. Maybe, for good. Years if not. Without…” he swallowed. “Days. Maybe a week. It’s the only way.”

Bethany nodded. “Take me to them.”

“Are you sure?” Hawke asked. “It sounds—”

“I’m dying, Saoirse. I can feel it, slowing the blood in my veins, taste it fouling my breath. You know me, sister.”

“I do.” Hawke cupped her cheek. She looked at Anders. “How long to get to the Wardens?”

“One day, maybe two. They were staying nearer the surface. We need to leave. Now.”

They did. Hawke had her armor on in minutes, and Varric stowed their bedroll with haste. She buckled him back into his harness and they left to help Anders with Bethany. She was still strong, able to walk on her own, but slowly. They left the fortress without taking anything more than they brought in.

The Roads split soon after they left, and they took the one that led away from the darkness and the crystal cavern that followed it. These roads were wider, better lit, with rooms full of torches and lava, sleeping golems and crumbling pillars. The darkspawn were more prevalent here, roving hurlocks with their rotten faces and too many teeth, huddled genlocks picking at corpses in every darkened corner. Anders was a force of vengeance, his desperation weakening his hold over Justice as they scythed through the ravening hordes. They stopped only briefly to catch their breath and let Bethany rest. She wasn’t happy to let them do all the work, but Anders was in charge, and he wasn’t about to let her tighten the Blight’s hold on her.

Anders stopped short at a tiled hall, his heightened senses pricking in reaction to something. “Something’s coming. Wardens, I think.” The screech of hurlocks scenting prey echoed from the walls. He rolled his eyes and drew his staff. “Or it could be the darkspawn.”

Anders and Bianca wiped out the hurlocks to the front, and Hawke stunned the group trying to flank them. She tore through them without pity or fear, and when the last one fell, three Wardens in full armor appeared. She looked the leader up and down, and turned to clean her daggers. Blondie stepped forward.

“Anders,” the leader said with a frown.

“Stroud. I have someone for you.”

This Warden Stroud looked like a man who’d last been surprised sometime back in the Fourth Blight. He studied their little band, worn but hopeful, bent with a weight of unwanted knowledge. His eyes rested on Bethany the longest. Varric watched him trace the darkening veins, black spider lines that crawled up her neck and hands, the subtle matte haze dulling her coffee dark eyes. 

“You mean the girl. Of course you do.” He sighed and turned to Hawke, having noted the family resemblance. “I’m sorry. I know this comes as no comfort to you, but we do not recruit Grey Wardens out of pity. It is no kindness.”

Anders huffed. “You think I don’t know that? Look at her.”

“This is no simple thing, Anders. It may be as much a death sentence as the sickness.”

“Bethany is the strongest person I know, and a formidable mage besides.” Anders swallowed. “She will only strengthen your numbers.”

“The Joining—”

“Maker, Stroud! Look at her! She will die within the week if you do nothing.” His eyes flashed blue, and Stroud stood a little stiffer. Anders blinked it back. “Just, take her and try. I… I beg you.”

The Warden looked from Anders to Bethany, from Bethany to Hawke. He seemed sad, resigned. “If she comes, she comes now. You may never see her again. Becoming a Warden is not a cure, it’s a calling.”

Hawke turned to her sister. “Are you certain, Beth?”

Bethany nodded, gently pulling Hawke’s arm from her shoulder. She stood, tired and clearly in pain, but her back was straight and her mouth was firm. “You may be Hawke, but we’re all Hawkes. If it’s a choice between fighting death and waiting for it—”

“We fight.”

She nodded. “I’m going. Take care of mother. Varric,” her eyes drifted down to him. “Remember what I said, in the caves.” She turned to Anders, and embraced him. “Anders… I’ll write. I’ll write every day I’m strong enough to lift a feather.” 

Stroud closed his eyes as he understood their bond. He opened them to look only at her, and offered his arm. “Are you ready, lady?”

She took it. “I am.”

She didn’t look back.

The Wardens left them with provisions and supplies, spare bolts for Bianca, a full set of grenades for Hawke, strong lyrium potions for Anders. They watched until the haze in the tunnels swallowed the blue and steel armor, and turned to the subtle rise of the road before them.

They continued toward the surface, their steps numb as they set one foot before the other and cleared the occasional band of darkspawn. Day and night lost all meaning. They stopped when they could go no further, ate when their limbs trembled. When they slept, two at a time, they slept together, their muscles twitching on the crushed bedrolls after hours of hard use. The third on watch was always near, a hand on a sleeping shoulder, a back tucked into the angle of half curled legs. Hawke pushed them hard. There was no time for grief, no thought but the next step, the next wave of enemies screaming from the darkness. She had done this before.

When they reached the surface there was no celebration, no kissing of the soft, loamy earth. Varric blinked at the sky, blue and impossibly bright. Sunlight stabbed into his eyes. He welcomed the pain. Hawke followed the rutted track left by the Wardens, hours on her feet, hours left to go. Anders… Anders followed Hawke. They both followed Hawke, waiting for her permission to break, to fall to their knees and rend their garments. She checked the surface map, and walked on.

They traveled as the noon sun slipped down the sky in degrees, early afternoon, late, evening. They drank on the road, ate on their feet. Highwaymen leapt from the bushes once, brandishing their flimsy steel. Hawke threw a knife into the leader’s throat, and the rest fled when they saw the void behind her eyes. She left both dagger and man in the road, his pockets unrifled. 

A glow in the west grew as the sun’s light faded behind it. The scent of onions caramelizing in butter wafted by, eliciting a growl from all three stomachs. Horses snuffled at their mangers, and grooms and porters called to each other in passing. She’d returned them to the Four Songs. 

They entered stinking and ragged, and the proprietress frowned. Hawke reached into a pack and brought out six of the dwarven coins. She stacked them, one at a time on the table, a full handspan of gold that gleamed dully on the polished oak. The woman’s eyes flicked from her coin to her countenance, nodded, and waved to a barmaid to show them upstairs. They followed Hawke, one foot before the other, aware of the sudden interest in the room but incapable of feeling it. 

Hawke went to one bedchamber, Varric to another, Anders to a third. Varric locked the door and let his satchels fall. He looked at the bed, huge and soft. He looked at himself, worn and filthy, lean from the road and knotted with mourning. He leaned Bianca on the wall next to him and shrugged out of his scorched and bloodied duster. He kicked off his boots, curled up on the cover, and knew no more.


	10. Protocol for a Pyrrhic Victory

He woke encased in stone. It fell, and he fell with it.

Darkness opened its ravening maw and consumed him whole, its breath cold and wet. He opened his eyes to nothingness. No room, no stars, no walls but those closing in, no doors but those out of reach. He fell.

His lungs were jagged crystal, his gut wrought iron. Chipped fingernails cut and he bled mercury, silver and flowing and poisonous. He tried to call out but his voice was dust, and dust was silent. She threw his ring to the floor. Their last meeting, secret, perilous. He’d compromised her, her work, her place in the world. His jealous, heedless need. Hers, hot and cold, there and gone. She left and he tried to call after her, but his voice was razors, and they were silent, too.

He fell. He fell.

A weight shifted; it tugged and pulled. It was a tether, soft and heavy, a breath at the back of his neck. He turned to her, the glide of skin below linen, the gentle shine of her eyes. He buried his face into her darkness. He filled his lungs with her, and became flesh. 

“We missed you downstairs,” Hawke said when he’d stopped shaking. 

“Heh. Hope you didn’t wait for me.”

“Only ‘til the food came.”

“That… checks out.”

“I brought some up—”

“Not sure eating’s on the docket tonight. Belly’s a little tender.”

“Ours were, too. It’s bread, broth, and watered beer, and you should have some.”

He grumbled, but he did sit up. She passed him the bowl and watched as he ate, hesitant at first, then ravenous as the thin soup and sour bread soothed him. Her arm draped across his back and her fingers traced lazy circles along his collarbone, over the crest of his shoulder, and that soothed him as well. He tipped the bowl to his lips to wring the last drop from its rough surface. She took it and offered him the small cup of beer. 

“I don’t—”

“Mother would insist,” she said with a half grin.

He sighed and downed it in one go. She watched, clinical, as he lowered his chin and nodded.

“Mother knows best,” he said. “Does she have any further words of wisdom?”

Hawke wrinkled her nose. “She’d scold you for marinating her sheets in filth.” He huffed a dry laugh. “I have a fresh bath drawn in my chambers. Come on.”

He slid from the bed. She hooked his satchel with a finger and led him down the hall, and placed the soft pack just inside the door.

“I’ll be downstairs,” she said. “Nightcap when you’re clean. On me.”

She closed the door, not waiting for a reply. He shook his head. He was the one who took care of people. Being taken care of was… strange, and disorienting. He stripped his filthy clothes and piled them with hers, fairly certain they’d be burning them later. They’d each kept one set clean against their return, at Hawke’s insistence. Score one for the optimists. He stepped into the bath and sank to his chin in blessedly scalding, lightly scented water. He ducked below and came up, hair full and slick. The grime came away, slowly at first, then in flakes, then in streams. He washed his hair, teasing knots out with his fingers, smoothing the rough ends with a small flask of rosemary oil. 

The rawness of their ordeal smoothed away as well. He could almost think without flinching, almost glance behind himself without fear. His eyes slid from the dark corners of her chambers, though. He couldn’t face that. Not yet. He could have remained there until the bath turned cold, but the thought of Hawke waiting for him chased him from the water before it could stop steaming. He dried with the thick towel, dressed in his last presentable clothes, and went to her.

She sat at the table near the fire, just as she had the first night they spent there. Only a handful of other patrons remained, their quiet conversations and the crackle of hearthfire a welcome ambient music. He sat across from her. She pushed a mug into his hands.

“Ancient Fereldan secret,” she said. “Hot spiced mead.” 

He chuckled. “Claiming that for Ferelden, are we?”

She lifted her steaming mug. “Drink up, skeptic.”

They clinked carefully, and sipped carefully as well. It burned, the heat of the fire it had boiled over, the heat of the sun in the spices, the heat of creation in the honey. He felt it hit his gut. She watched him. 

“Mm,” he hummed, “strong medicine.”

“It was Mother’s first line of defense against any and all illnesses,” she said. “This is more… potent, than what she gave us as kids, but the cook did her best with what she had.”

“Wait, Leandra?” Hawke nodded, lifting her brows as though he were the slow one. “Leandra Hawke, née Amell?” Hawke stopped, her eyes widening. “Of the _Kirkwall_ Amells?” She groaned. He grinned. “Wouldn’t that make this… an ancient _Kirkwallan_ secret?”

“Ugh. _Fine._ Just drink it.”

He did, savoring the warmth that spread through his middle. He tilted his head back toward the kitchen. “Think she’ll give me the recipe?”

“She might sell you a jug,” Hawke said, smiling into her drink.

“Anders went up already?”

“Yeah. I made him drink one of these, too.” She watched the steam curl and dissipate. “It’s funny. I was worried about them together. Now… I’m terrified for them apart.”

Varric cupped his hands around hers. “Your sister will be fine,” he said. He paused to see his hands cover hers, each curve and bone aligned as though they’d been struck at the same forge, a matching set. “She’s a survivor, like you.”

Hawke wrapped her thumb around his. “Mom will blame me. She didn’t want Beth to go, but the templars… she’d have been locked up in the Circle, had she stayed. Father dedicated his life to keeping her from them.” She paused. “Will losing her to the Wardens hurt any less?”

Varric ducked his head, catching her eyes. “Does it?”

Her lips twitched in a sad smile. “It was her choice. That’s the best comfort I can give any of us. She chose her path for the first time in her life. Being born a mage, not a choice. Fleeing Lothering, coming to Kirkwall, being _my_ little sister…” She exhaled, stroking his thumb. “She’s finally free of us.” 

She pulled her hands away to sip her mead. Varric curled his fingers on cool, empty air and stared into the fire. When he looked back to her, her eyelids were heavy, and her shoulders drooped. She slid her hand across to him. He took it, and she laid her head on her arm. He finished his mead in a single burning swallow, and stood.

“No sleeping in the tavern when a soft bed awaits, m’lady,” he said. 

He helped her up, her arm around his shoulders, his arm around her waist. They managed the stairs, and he laid her under the covers. She pulled them to her chin. He turned to leave. She caught his wrist. He turned back to see her watching him.

“Stay?”

“I’m not so—”

“Please.” A break, the smallest fracture in her voice.

He closed the door. She shifted to the other side, and he climbed between the sheets her body had warmed. She faced him, expecting to resume their accustomed arrangement, but when he decided to stay, he’d also decided that night would be different.

“Roll over,” he said.

She looked at him, amused. He twirled his finger, _come on, humor me,_ and she did. He shifted to press gently against her back, one arm under the pillow, the other resting along his side, his hand lightly at her waist. His hips were carefully removed from hers, his legs tucked near, not touching. He didn’t want to assume.

“Is this okay?” he asked.

She grunted and lifted his hand. “May I?”

He hesitated. A line appeared before him, begging to be crossed. “Knock yourself out.”

She drew his hand to her chest, hooking his arm around her ribs and between her breasts, lacing their fingers together above her heart. He shifted to follow, bringing his skin flush with hers from chest to knee. She trembled beneath him, and he sent a fleeting thanks to all the tiny gods that he was unable to respond. 

“Is this, okay?” she asked.

Her voice was thick, with sleep or desire, he didn’t know. He didn’t trust his own, so he answered with a kiss at her shoulder, reciprocating at last. She exhaled, sinking under his lips. The small comfort they’d taken in each other on the Deep Roads multiplied, expanding in the soft bed, the sturdy walls, the murmur of life below. He curled around her, his earlier hesitation forgotten, and they slept. 

She woke before he did. He felt a shifting, a press on his legs, breath in his hair. Maferath’s balls, he needed to piss. A hand trailed light fingertips on his back, drawing ripples in their wake. He opened his eyes to a swath of bare skin bathed in morning light, the crease of arm over chest, a short fall of thick, sable hair. He looked up to see Hawke watching him.

“Mm. We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” he said, “people will talk.”

Her hand stopped. “Let them,” she said with a shrug.

He sighed. “That’s fine while you stay at your current address, but you’re moving to Hightown. Things will be different.”

“Hmph. Worrying about my reputation already, serah?”

“Someone has to.” She chuckled. His cock twinged, and an alarming thought occurred to him. “Say, ah, I didn’t… this morning…”

“What, prod me awake? Jab my tender, virginal flesh with your lusty manhood?”

His ears burned. “Maker’s _boiled ass,_ Hawke—”

She laughed. “Don’t worry, I would never take advantage of a sweet young thing like you.” He groaned. She lifted her arm to shoo him off. “Go. Attend to your business.”

He rolled from the bed, tilting his hips away from her. Maker, the viscount could hold a charity ball in the tent he’d popped. He plucked at his tunic to hide it as best he could, and hurried to the washroom down the hall.

She was still in bed when he returned. He hesitated again, wanting to fly to her side, to press himself on her scarred flesh, the thought of her skin under his fingers and her breath in his ear stirring a new erection that had nothing to do with drink or sleep. He cleared his throat before he could become too hasty. She looked at him over her shoulder, a move that must have been included in the finishing school for dangerous coquettes. Sunlight knifed through the window. His expression froze in a rictus when it struck her, golden on the covers, golden in her hair. Wrong. This was wrong. He needed to—

“Going to see who’s awake,” he said, tilting his head toward the door. “Can I get something started for you?”

She gave up the pose to flop gracelessly onto her back. “Whatever’s greasiest,” she said, her voice flat.

He left, thrumming with panic and cursing himself for a coward. “Run away, run away, scared little man,” he muttered under his breath. He stopped in his chambers first, dressing in his leathers. He sighed as he clipped Bianca into her harness. Her weight settled his swirling mind as it always did, solid and sure, his better half. He went down to the tavern.

The cook was up and cursing in the kitchen already. He sat at Hawke’s table, and the proprietress brought a steaming mug of black coffee and a plate of bread and cheese nearly as soon as his rear hit the chair. 

“Thank you, m’lady,” he said.

“No ladies here,” she said, smiling in spite of her salty rejoinder.

“I stand corrected,” he replied with his dashingest grin. “Does the cook have a special this morning?”

“Sausage and grits, two eggs.”

“Two orders, one with extra sausage.”

“Coming right up, handsome,” she said with a wink.

He watched her swish through her small tavern, stopping at a huddle of roughnecks to crack a worn joke, refilling a lone farmer’s coffee with a soft hand. She fit seamlessly into her business, the worn white of her dress glowing against the plaster walls, her sturdy leather boots the same shade as the old oak beams. He sipped his coffee, wondering if he seemed equally a part of the Hanged Man. He’d have to ask…

Hawke.

No. He wasn’t going to ask her, but she was coming down the stairs. Her armor gleamed, the hilts of her daggers twinkling over her shoulders like lethal constellations. She caught him looking and hooked her thumbs into her belt, brandishing her nonchalance as a challenge, her shoulders tense, the line of her lips turned ever so slightly downward. He sighed. She might have walked very differently down those steps, had the morning gone another way. He indulged in the image _they descend together, weak at the knees and smelling of sex, she leans on him, her hips loose, favoring the leg he’d used as an anchor. They laugh at an inside joke, some amusing mid-coitus misunderstanding— _

She plunked down opposite him and dispelled the vision. “Where’d you go off to?”

The owner set a matching mug before Hawke, who nodded appreciatively. 

“Thought better of eating a full brekkie in naught but my nightie,” he said.

She raised an eyebrow. “No, just now. You were a hundred leagues away.”

The food arrived and saved him from answering. She dug in with relish, carving out a huge bite of sausage, grits, and dripping egg. The barmaid had assumed the extra meat was for him. He chuckled and dropped two thick links onto her plate.

“Fattening me up, Tethras? Didn’t you call me heavy just recently?”

He reached over. “I’m happy to take them back if you’re watching your womanly figure,” he said.

She stabbed them with her fork. “I am watching my womanly figure,” she replied. “I’m watching it get as fat and happy as it likes.” She popped half a link into her mouth and chewed noisily.

He returned to his plate. Anders joined them after a while, receiving coffee and a full plate as he sat. Varric watched him. He was hunched, spooning the grits into his mouth, swallowing without tasting them. He looked as though he hadn’t slept a wink, and no wonder. He’d had so little time with Bethany, fighting by her side, sharing her bed, and by the sound of it, having quite a lot of sex. And now, she was gone. Varric’s chest twinged in empathy. Those empty, sleepless nights were in his future, too. At least he wouldn’t be missing all the sex he hadn’t had.

Hawke broke the silence. “Anders.” He grunted. “What do you think she’s doing, right now?”

He leaned back with a sigh. “She’ll have survived the Joining, and will be healing in their medical ward.”

“Think she can lift a feather?”

He huffed. “I couldn’t have, after.” His eyes glazed over with the memory. “She’ll be hungry, worse than she’s ever been. They’ll feed her sweet boiled oats and soft eggs, plain, filling food. Mages always have it worse, with our connection to the Fade. Her dreams… her dreams will be horrible. She’ll dream of them; she can feel them now. I’ve learned to block them out, mostly… Justice helps. The Wardens know, though. She will be, supported…”

Hawke laid a hand on his shoulder. “She’ll write, Anders. She owes you her life, and much of the happiness in it.”

He sniffled, and pushed back from the table. “I’m sorry. I’ll leave you… let me know when you plan to return to Kirkwall”

“I’ll arrange transportation,” Varric said. “I think we’ve all had enough walking to last us a lifetime.”

Anders nodded once, and left. They went on eating, Varric worrying at the problem of first acquiring then profiting from the relics in the ancient thaig. The bags of gold and gems assured they’d be well positioned to hire the job out, though the exact value of any of what they’d found was impossible to know. He’d need an expert. To find an expert, he’d need… her. He pushed his plate away. Hawke looked up, concerned.

He stood. “Business.”

“Going to see a man about a horse?” she asked with a knowing smile.

He laughed. “Yes, actually. And a carriage to go with.” His smile faded. “Are you ready? To return?”

She swallowed. “Ready, no. I owe it to Mother, though. She’ll have worried herself sick in our absence, especially if Bartrand returned before us.”

Varric’s teeth clenched. “We should be so lucky. The next time I see him will be the last time he sees anything.”

“Easy, killer,” she said. “Anything I can do to help?”

He shook his head. “Not much to do until we’re back. Expect a shitshow, though. Well, I should. Word’s probably gotten back that we’re lost in the Deep Roads, so I’ll have a few snarls to untangle in the network. Then we’ll need to find a way to profit from our finds. The gold and gems are straightforward enough, but the artifacts…” he sighed. “Bartrand would have had those contacts. I’ll need my own, now. You and Blondie should keep the coin we took.” 

“Varric—”

He held up a hand. “Merchant prince, remember? You need it more than I do. Get your family home back. Buy Anders some new cots.”

She sipped her coffee, studying him. He pushed “Murder Bartrand” to the bottom of his to-do list, and left to secure the most luxurious carriage available to take them home. 

He tried not to think about the future while he waited in the stables. The gold would grease the wheels Leandra had been trying unsuccessfully to turn. They would wrest the Amell estate’s title from the coin counters in the viscount’s offices and throw the windows open to air out the stink the slavers had left behind. Leandra would fill it with tasteful furniture, tall, elegant beds, a wooden writing desk, perhaps a library. Soon, having heard of the fantastic fortune the old family had come in to, handsome dullards would line up at her door, shining and stupid, cloaked in silks they hadn’t earned and carrying unblooded steel.

A harsh breath left him. Look at the dwarf, making himself upset about everything he couldn’t control. The head groom returned and told him their best carriage was already in Kirkwall and wouldn’t return ‘til evening, but they had three good horses with smooth gaits…

Which is how he found himself returning to the city of chains on the back of the very same horse he’d left with. He glanced over at Hawke on the shining black courser, his head high and proud as though he knew the sort of person astride him, then to Anders on his lanky chestnut palfrey, slow and sleepy, trailing behind. His own mount was exactly as pert as he remembered, and he scratched her gently arched neck with a genuine fondness. If he had to ride, he was glad to have the bay mare again. They walked under the high noon sunshine, quiet but for creaking leather and clanking metal, a hot, hazy warmth in the air. Spring in Kirkwall was often a dull, dreary affair, but it seemed at least a small kind of luck smiled on them as they rode into their new lives as fabulously wealthy citizens.

They returned the horses to the city stables, leaving the groom with a piece of gold. They saw Anders to his clinic, ransacked and deserted. He walked through it in a daze, righting cots, shuffling the broken glass into small piles. Varric stopped him to place a small, heavy bag in his hands, his share of the dwarven gold.

“Pay someone to do this, Anders. Daisy probably knows hungry elves who’ll make this place shine for less than one of these. Have them build new cots, weave new blankets. Start over.”

Anders held the leather bag loosely, and allowed himself to be taken to the alienage. They watched him knock, and left as the door opened to reveal Merrill’s surprised face. They walked through Lowtown. Hawke stopped to sell some of the lesser gems, the cracked ruby, the chipped opal, and bought a huge meat pie with the proceeds.

“Not cooking tonight?” Varric asked.

“It’s for Mother,” she said. “If this is anything like losing Carver, she won’t eat unless I insist.”

“Shit, Hawke, I—”

“Will you be at the Hanged Man tonight?”

“I… yeah, I will.”

Hawke was silent, regarding the meat pie. “Okay. See you, Varric.”

She left before he could answer. “See you,” he murmured as she turned the corner. 

He shoved his hands into his pockets and walked alone through Lowtown. He tried not to think about the weight in her step, the flatness of her eyes. He tried not to think of Leandra as she watched only one of her children return to Gamlen’s stinking hovel. He tried not to think. His ears burned. He trudged to the bar and settled his and Hawke’s tabs with a single perfect sapphire, and locked himself into his dusty rooms.

His network had gone on without him, trusted seconds and assistants, all people he’d helped one way or another, loyal to him for passages paid or sentences waived. Their reports were stacked high on his table, a mountain of parchment reeking of cheap ink. He grabbed a handful and sat down to skim them for any news of Bartrand. 

He got through all of Hightown and half of Low, and was startled to hear a soft knock at his door. He replaced the page he held perpendicular to the stack and went to open it. Hawke stood before him, arms crossed, head down. He stood aside to let her in. She went to her chair, and when did that happen, that she had a chair in his room? She went to her chair and slumped into it to stare at the small ruffle in the hundreds of pages of sticky reports. 

“Hawke?” He wanted to help, but—

“Don’t suppose you have any of that dragon ale hidden away?”

“Dragon… the Nevarran?” She nodded. “I’m afraid that would be at the Tethras estate. Pint of bitter from downstairs?”

She sighed. “Does it get you drunk?”

“I’ll grab a pitcher.” He left the door cracked open.

Corff grinned at him as he came to the bar. “Varric! It’s been quiet without you. Bring some fresh tales from the Deep Roads? Is it true that the mushrooms down there make you see sounds as colors? I had a party of your people, tattoos covering their faces—”

“Corff.” Varric held up his hands. “I’ll tell you everything later. Right now, I need a pitcher of ale, two tankards, and your best mince pie.”

The barkeep nodded. “Hawke. I didn’t see her come up, but Edwina thought she felt her slip by. That Edwina… you think she’s a witch?”

“No, Corff. She’d find better work as a witch. Have her bring it up.”

He nodded, and Varric returned to his rooms. Hawke was right where he’d left her, burning holes into his papers. He began filing his reports, the big, soft dividers sighing open at his touch. He cleared the last page as Edwina walked through his open door. She noticed Hawke right away, reading the lines of her body like a book. She put the tray down and dropped a strong, worn hand on her slumped shoulder. Hawke tilted her head into the stout forearm, and Edwina squeezed gently, lancing Varric with a hard stare that said _fix this, or I’ll fix you._ He nodded, and she left.

He poured the ale, wrinkling his nose as the bitter sting hit him. Hawke didn’t stir until he cut into the pie, setting half before her with a generous dollop of the fresh sweetcream he’d forgotten to ask for. 

“We split the pie,” she said quietly, picking up the fork and poking it into the cream. 

Varric hummed, glad to hear her speak. “We split the pie,” he agreed. 

They ate in silence. She chewed slowly, absorbed in the process. He ate just as slowly, absorbed in her. She cleaned her plate before she spoke again, her words broken by the act of licking her finger to pick up the flaky bits of crust.

“Do you know… what, makes mince pie… so foolproof. That even the fools here… can make it?” she asked. He didn’t know. She pushed the plate away. “Mace. Well, all the spices, but mace is the one that covers for the other mistakes. It smooths sharp fruit and warms dull pastry, it’s more expensive than all the other spices combined, and you can’t make mince pie without it. Mace. It was Father's favorite.” She looked at him. “You’re a bit like mace, you know.”

“Mace, hm? The only maces I know are the ones the Guard carry around for protection.”

She smiled. “That’s not entirely off the mark, either.”

“So,” he said, leaning back in his chair, “are we talking about grinding me into pie, or strapping me to your back for when it’s clobbering time?”

She huffed. “You know what I mean. Impossible dwarf.”

He refilled her tankard before topping off his own. “I caught the drift.” He sat back. “How—” He bit down on the question. He wasn’t sure he should ask.

“How is Leandra?” He nodded. “She fell to the floor when I told her. I tried to catch her, but I was too slow, too tired. I knelt with her a while, as she wept. She thought… when she saw it was only me, she thought Beth had died. When I told her that her youngest lived, her knees gave out.” 

“Is she…”

“Angry? No. The templars broke down Gamlen’s door the morning after we left. They trashed what little he had when she told him Beth had slipped through their fingers.” She laughed, bitter. “Gamlen totaled the damage and gave her a bill. Maker, what a useless bag of tallow and hair.”

Varric snorted at that. “Did you settle up?”

She smirked. “I told him I’d like to, but I didn’t have change.”

“Oh, to see the look on his face!” 

“It did feel good.” She sighed. “I put Mom up with the gold in a Hightown inn so she can go to the viscount’s offices first thing tomorrow. She took stationery and a quill, pressed me to her chest, and asked to be alone. She said she wanted to write to her Bethy, and I was… too loud.”

Varric winced. “Hawke—”

“No, it’s… I got to say goodbye, and she didn’t. Maker knows I could have taken the top floor and stayed with her if I wanted to, but…” she watched Varric. He pulled his lips into a half smile. “When I left her room in the fancy inn with its crystal chandelier and colored glass windows, it felt… wrong. Forced. I let my feet take me to somewhere that felt right, and they led me here.”

“Well. Seems your better judgment is still flawed as ever.”

She rolled her eyes and drained the ale. She refilled her tankard and poured the last of the ale into his. He watched her. She had come to him tired, nowhere near rested from their ordeal in the Deep Roads. The ale was affecting her faster than normal, only two and a half in and she listed dangerously to the left. She grabbed for the handle but missed, and it nearly went flying across the table. He caught it with a practiced hand, slowing it to a stop to keep the liquid inside. 

“Mm. Think you’ve had enough, beautiful.”

She barked a laugh. “Now I am,” she mumbled.

“You are, what?”

“The most beautiful Hawke sister in Kirkwall.”

He threw her arm over his shoulders and made her stagger to her feet. “Haven’t you heard?”

They moved to the bed. He set her down on the corner and began unlacing her boots. 

“Heard what?” she asked. 

“Beauty is in the eye of the beerholder.” She snorted. “I called your sister Sunshine, Hawke, not…” He tasted the feel of the word in his mouth. “But she called you something similar. What _is_ your first name?”

Her eyes closed. “Family secret.”

He pulled her boots off and went to work on the rest of her armor. “Family secret? Why?”

“My father named me.”

“And…”

“We don’t talk about him… hic! Much.”

“Do I not count as family, then? I’ll have to start charging you for your drinks…”

She snorted. “Can buy my own now. ‘M rich.”

He stacked her armor near the wall, and laid her down on the bed. He hung his duster on its carved hook, kicked off his own boots, and laid down beside her. Andraste’s sacred drawers, lying in his own bed again felt like paradise.

“Fine. You can always tell me later. Hawke.”

She threw an arm over his chest, a thigh over his leg. Her breath puffed against his neck, sour with ale and sweets. 

“Maybe,” she said.

“Goodnight, Hawke.”

“Goodnight, Varric.”

In the morning, she was gone.


	11. Summerday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the holiday edition! I maay have promised smut in this chapter, but things got so far out of hand I needed to split it up. The good news is, Ch. 12 is pretty much 100% pure, uncut porn. If that's what you're here for, I won't judge if you skip ahead! If you'd rather avoid the reason I bumped the rating to explicit, there's no main plot you're missing if you skip 12 completely.
> 
> This and the following chapter will be the last updates until 2020. May your holidays be bright!

Days passed and turned into weeks. Weeks passed and became months. Kirkwall’s dirty grey spring blossomed into buzzing, flystruck summer, and he hadn’t seen Hawke since the night of their return. Word that the Amells had reclaimed their estate reached him. Varric dove headfirst into all the dwarfy crap he’d intended to leave to Bartrand. Between developing his own style of malicious compliance in his dealings with the Guild and overseeing the pillage of the ancient thaig, he found himself needing more hours in the day.

He restructured the top of his network, placing a handful of his most trusted people in charge of the daily bullshit so he could devote more time to the stuff coming up from the thaig, and ancestor’s droopy balls, there was a lot of it. It gathered dust in a rented docks warehouse, waiting for his expert. He stacked the Guild’s embossed reports and hefty meeting notes to the side. He’d get to them, eventually. He wrote his letter, knowing this one would get a reply. It was too great an offer for anyone to resist, even her. He started writing notes for another novel when he woke in the night, after the panic subsided. He put them in a locked drawer by candlelight, small and unremarkable in his cabinet.

He was skimming a Darktown report over his solitary lunch, thinking about the long, luxurious nap he’d take after. The report was a single page these days, all the most important happenings and none of the details. He missed them sometimes, the little details, but he trusted his new second to know what was what. A soft knock interrupted his reading. He checked the time. He wasn’t expecting anyone. A short dagger shifted against his calf as he leaned back in his chair.

“Come in,” he called.

The heavy door creaked open, and a light poof of grey hair preceded its owner into his room. He hummed in surprise.

“Lady Hawke,” he said, standing. “You’re the toast of Hightown these days, but I see the wags’ purplest prose does you no justice.”

It was the suave thing to say, but that didn’t make it any less true. Her hair had been recently styled, and her new dress was the picture of understated elegance. Her lined face had lost its pinched bad humor in the last weeks to reveal a very handsome dowager lady indeed. Hightown looked good on her.

“Messere Tethras, still your gilded tongue.” She smiled, softening her words. “Have you seen my daughter?”

“Is she missing?” he asked, gesturing to the nearest chair.

“In a way,” Leandra said as they sat. “She worked herself to the bone as we reclaimed the estate, running missives from one office to the next, arranging for a thorough scrubbing and airing once it was ours, even joining me as I selected the furnishings and drapery.” She folded her hands before her, troubled. “Now though, she haunts our empty library at night and sleeps away the day, rising only when I find a pressing errand for her. She doesn’t go out. She doesn’t visit her friends.” She looked at him, her clear grey eyes peering into his. “So, have you seen my daughter?”

He swallowed. Hawke’s days and nights sounded an awful lot like his, minus all the paperwork. “I haven’t, not since…”

“Your first night back.” He opened his mouth to explain, but she waved him off. “She trusts you, Messere Tethras—”

“Varric, please. Messere Tethras was my father.”

“Very well. She trusts you, Varric, so I will trust you. Of all her companions in Kirkwall, you were her closest and most constant. I cursed your name the night you took my girls away, only to find myself blessing it the very next morning.” She unfolded and refolded her hands. “I miss Bethany dearly, of course, but she writes regularly. She could not have, if they had taken her.” 

Varric didn’t need to ask who _they_ were; all the Hawkes spat _they_ exactly the same when referring to the templars. He’d received a letter from Bethany a handful of weeks back. A short missive, something about the dreary weather, a quip about feeling the darkspawn for the first time. Leave it to Sunshine to make light of such horror.

“How is she?”

Leandra tilted her head. “She is alive, and she is allowed to be herself. The Grey Wardens seem a dire company, but she is no longer persecuted for the accident of her birth.” She gazed at her hands. “They have given her something we never could.”

Varric leaned forward to cover her hands with one of his. “You gave her your love. A mother’s love. She wouldn’t be the woman she is without it.” He squeezed lightly, and leaned back.

She closed her eyes. “I need your help, Varric. Hawke is… not well. A mother’s love can only do so much.”

“What would you have me do?”

A small, graceful shrug. She looked at him, searching. “Come around to the estate. Coax her from the fog she’s gathered around herself. Maker knows I have tried and failed, these last weeks.”

“Lady Hawke—”

“Leandra.”

“Leandra, with your permission, I will call on her tonight.”

Leandra Hawke stood and put her fingers to her lips, hiding a grin too wide to be proper. 

“Varric Tethras, my eldest daughter has neither wanted nor needed my permission for anything since she was ten years old. Go to her now, if you’re so moved. I have my own errands to run, and will not return until after tea.” 

She raised a knowing eyebrow, and saw herself out. She paused in his doorway, a slight stiffening in her shoulders. Varric cocked his head. There was someone else waiting to see him. Leandra tilted her head at the precise angle that said _I will be civil and no more,_ and she stepped down the stairs out of sight. The door stayed open. Varric pressed the dagger on his leg, taking solace in the hard lines that dug into his skin. It was balanced to throw, but heavy enough for hand to hand. It had saved his life half a dozen times. It was his most favorite knife.

A hooded figure stepped into the light, short, broad… soft. A dwarf. _The_ dwarf. She closed the door. He fondled the hilt of his blade and felt a pricking behind his left eye.

“Bianca.”

She slid the hood from her shining golden hair. It was long these days, kept in hugely complex braids befitting a married woman of her wealth and notoriety. He wondered how many hours she sat for it each morning. Her blue eyes rested on him coolly, clear as water and deep as the sky. She held her expression in a stillness, neither happy nor resentful to see him. Damn. He’d expected a letter, but—

“Varric.”

“Making house calls now? How does old what’s-his-name feel about that?”

She rolled her eyes. How… uncivil. She’d always been a touch cruel, he realized with a start. It was one of the things he’d loved her for, once. He’d coddled it and named it honesty. This time, though…

“He’s in Ostwick, on business. Your letter was very… persuasive. Can I see, what you have?”

Varric considered this. He could tell her the warehouse number and trust she wouldn’t sell him out. He could escort her there, risking both their necks. Shit, he could just say— 

“No. I asked you for a reference, not an appraisal.”

She blinked, a tiny crack in her façade. “Don’t you trust me?”

He rubbed his brow; that headache was gathering steam and it promised to be a doozy. “It’s not about _trust,_ Bianca. Were you followed?”

The slightest hesitation. “No.”

“That sounded an awful lot like ‘maybe’ from over here.”

She huffed. “What happened to you?” He didn’t answer. “Won’t you at least offer me a seat?”

He swept his hand to a low stone chair. Not Hawke’s. She sat and washed him with an injured gaze. Something soured in his gut. This was different. This was new. This was… 

“What happened, was my own brother locked me in a vault and left me for dead for _coin._ What happened, was we clawed our way out, only to _lose_ someone once we were safe. What _happened,_ was a stack of returned letters, thicker than my arm.” He glared at her.

She raked possessive eyes over the arms in question, but had the decency to look away when he raised an eyebrow. 

“It wasn’t safe.”

He searched his soul for one single fuck to give, and came up empty. “It was never safe before, either.” She looked back at him, prim and pained. He waved, dismissive. “I get it, Bianca, I do. You have your life. Sounds like a good one, by all secondhand accounts. It’s only the primary source that has ever said otherwise, and then only to one, very specific, set of ears.”

“Varric—” her voice had lowered, softened. She knew the effect it had on him. 

“Don’t.” 

He set his elbows on the table and looked at her over his folded hands. She knew that expression, too, but she’d never had it directed her way before. Her lips pressed into a tight, dismayed line.

“Well. If you won’t show me, I’m afraid I can’t help you.” She tilted her chin in a challenge.

“First pick.”

That surprised her. “What?”

“You find me an expert, an honest, hardworking dwarf who will do right by a find this important, and you can have first pick of the lot.”

She took a moment to reply. “That is… very generous.”

“I need the right person for this job. They get seven percent.”

“Seven? That’s hardly anything!”

He laughed. She nearly rolled her eyes again, but caught herself and played at flicking an eyelash away. He slid a gem across the table. Her lips parted as she picked it up. It was a white opal, radiant with an inner fire of blue and orange, large as a goose egg and smooth as silk. That wasn’t the most remarkable thing about it, though. The most remarkable thing, was that one side had been carved into a delicate cameo of a young girl. Her eyes sparkled with life and curiosity, the folds of her embroidered garments were lush and soft, and each strand of her hair flew in an eternal wind. It was as priceless as an object could be.

“Seven.”

She swallowed. “Seven seems fair.” She looked at him, her eyes glistening. “Varric, with this find, these treasures, we could run to a place where no one could touch us. We could buy our own ship, sail far, far away—”

He reached across the table, palm up. She reached for his hand with her own. He closed it, and pointed to the one still holding the cameo. She froze, color rising in her pale, perfect cheeks.

“There is no ‘us,’ Bianca. You made that very clear the last time we spoke.” 

She clenched her fist around the opal. He took his hand back to cross his arms on his chest. He watched her eyes devour him. He found himself wishing they were green, bothered by dark hair and sparkling with mischief. He looked his younger self dead in the eye, and murdered him for a goddamn fool.

“Look at us,” he said with a shrug. “We’re too old for this shit. You’re married, with an entire life built to serve your genius.” She furrowed her brow. “Don't look at me like that, I’m merely stating facts known by all of Thedas. You, Bianca Davri, have already changed the world for the better, and given time, will change it even more. To do that, though, you need a solid foundation. You need the kalna clans behind you, supporting you, believing in you.

“You need them, and I am not of them. Nor have I ever, _ever_ wanted to be. This?” he gestured to his chambers, his papers, the disreputable tavern downstairs, “this isn’t some hidey hole where I’m biding my time. This isn’t a phase I’ll grow out of, having sprouted big, shiny fucking _wings._ This shithole city? The one you found a new, clever way to insult with every letter you wrote? This is _my_ city,” he held out his hand for the cameo, “and I love it.”

Her shoulders slouched. Not in the purposeful, graceful way Hawke’s did, he noticed, but in a sloppy, defeated manner that didn’t become her at all. She uncurled her fingers to stare at the opal, then dropped it into his palm with a forced disinterest. He put it back in his pocket.

“So. Do we have a deal? First pick to find me someone who can turn this dusty old shit into more coin than I know what to do with?”

“Anything I want?”

“One artifact. If it’s a set, you can have all the matching pieces.”

She stood, carefully settling the hood over her hair. “We have a deal. Send the agreements to the usual place.”

He snorted. “Are you sure they’ll be safe?” She inhaled sharply, caught in her own web. He lifted an eyebrow. “Goodbye, Bianca. Take care of yourself.”

She crossed to the door, and stopped. “Blessed Summerday, Varric. May you find joy in it.”

He groaned and rested his head on his palms. Summerday. That’s why it had been so everloving loud all morning. He rubbed his eyes as she left, and leaned back on his chair when the door clicked shut. He stared through his table, trying to process what the actual fuck had just happened. There was a sinking behind his lungs, a drag to accompany the icepick at his brow, but underneath was an effervescence, one that trembled his fingers and bounced his heels. 

Well. Whatever happened next, the ghost of Bianca would no longer be a silent companion to his waking hours. He sank into his chair, free at last of the constant feeling she was watching over his shoulder, waiting for him to say the next clever thing, disapproving when he made another decision that entrenched him further into his city. He’d lived years of his adult life under this phantom Bianca’s gaze, hoping to amuse her, make her proud, twisting himself with guilt when he let her down. He huffed a bitter laugh. 

Nothing for it now. He ran his fingers through his hair, pulling the tie and letting it fall to the table. Sunshine had liked it down, he remembered. He took her letter from the drawer. 

_Dear Varric,_

_I am writing by the nub of a candle older than Mother, so I apologize for my inevitable brevity. The sky has been unfailingly overcast and gloomy since my return to the surface, as though the clouds fancy themselves Grey Wardens. I have whispered to them that it’s not so glamorous as it seems, what with the darkspawn clawing our minds with their gory fingers at every turn, but when have the clouds ever listened to men? _

_Ah, the flame just guttered. Remember what I said in the lyrium caves, Varric. She wanted three things. Only one was for herself._

_Fondly,_

_Sunshine, Acolyte of the Grey_

Three things Hawke wanted. Her own room. Sanctuary from the templars. Varric’s lips parted. Hang the nap, he had to see a man about a _dog._ He dressed quickly and left for Darktown.

“The doctor is in!” Varric said, his voice large in the small room.

Blondie scowled at him. “He is, and his patients are in need of rest. Uninterrupted, rest.”

Varric looked around the clinic, clean and bright as anything could be in the sewers. The new cots gleamed in the lamplight, and the heavy desk Hawke had given him was spread with charts written in tiny, precise handwriting. Anders himself looked bent and worn, but no more so than he always had. Ink stained his fingers, and Varric wondered how much was from charting his patients’ needs, and how much from writing his endless letters to Bethany. Varric lowered his voice.

“Anders. I need a favor.” Blondie opened his mouth to refuse, but Varric held up a hand. “It’s not for me. It’s for Hawke.”

He closed his eyes in defeat. “Go on.”

“You’re in deep with the Fereldan refugees. Do you know of any with pups? Recently whelped?”

“Dogs? You’re asking me, an avowed cat person, about dogs?” Blondie opened his eyes as his eyebrows about disappeared into his hairline.

Varric shrugged. “If you can’t help…”

“No, no.” He rubbed his brow. “There’s a family in Lowtown, brought a month old pup in just last week. Cute, as dogs go. Deep brown, nearly black, striped with tan. It wouldn’t stop crying.” He huffed. “Gas. Awful stench.” He scribbled on his desk and handed Varric the slip of paper. “The address. Though I imagine you could hear the barking from leagues away. Dogs.” He shivered.

Varric beamed up at him. “Thanks, Blondie. I’d like to say you won’t regret this, but that would be a lie.”

Anders shooed him from the clinic. Varric briefly considered using the secret entrance to Hawke’s place. It was _right there,_ after all, but he decided against it. It was his first visit to the Amell estate, may as well go about it properly. He made his winding way out of Darktown and into the light.

He stopped at the door, polished to reveal the sturdy grain, the Amell crest shining in the afternoon sun. Children ran behind him, dressed in plain white shifts streaked with cherry juice, flowers braided into their hair. _Summerday._ He pulled the bell rope. He was pleased to see a familiar face answer.

“While I live and breathe, Varric Tethras! Come in, come in! Oh, Lady Hawke will be glad to see you.” Bodahn Feddic’s wide, honest face beamed at him as he ushered his visitor inside.

“Bodahn! Moving up in the world, are we? Where’s Sandal?”

He was led through a wide foyer, the same design as every other Hightown estate, and he waved to Sandal when they passed through the second door.

“‘Allo,” Sandal said as he walked in.

“Lady Hawke has invited us to stay with her. Isn’t that wonderful? I serve as her steward, and Sandal keeps her armory.”

Sandal perked up at his name and looked at Varric expectantly. “Enchantment?”

“Not today, Sandal.” 

Sandal lost all interest in him and turned back to his trunk. Bodahn wrung his hands, at a loss. Varric had the distinct feeling he was the first guest Hawke might actually be interested in receiving, and her faithful manservant was unsure how to proceed.

“Is Hawke here?”

“She is. Sleeping, I believe. Do you… shall I, wake her?”

Varric chuckled. “I wouldn’t ask you to risk your life on my behalf. Just point the way to her room.”

Bodahn did, much relieved, and Varric climbed the stairs to her door. She’d claimed the master suite, to his surprise. Perhaps Leandra’s room had better natural light? He knocked softly.

“I said I don’t want any, Mother.” Muffled, speaking through a pillow, or a thick blanket.

“I’m sure she’ll be sorry to hear that,” Varric replied.

Rustling sounded from the room. She opened the door rumpled and sour, hair sticking out at odd ends and dark smudges below her eyes. A wrinkled dress in mauve and black stopped at her knee, leaving her scarred, muscular legs exposed to prick gooseflesh in the cool interior air. His lips parted and those sparrows in his belly took wing. She looked like…

_home_

She looked like shit. He could see the toll her sleepless nights had taken, and his arms ached to carry her to bed, to wrap her in their strength and let her sleep the sleep of the dreamless. He put his hands in his pockets and made his lips curve into a smile instead.

“Hawke. Long time no see.”

She swallowed, trembling. “Varric.”

“Blessed Summerday.”

She blinked. “Summerday. I’d forgotten… er, I mean. Blessed Summerday to you.”

They stood and stared at each other, each taking a careful inventory of the quality and quantity of insults the interceding months had marked on them. She crossed her arms and looked ready to flee. He couldn’t let her. Not before— 

“Hawke. I have something for you. A surprise.”

She huffed. “Not big on surprises these days.”

He shook his head. “You’ll like this one. It’s in Lowtown, though, so…”

“I’ll need to change in to something less comfortable.”

He hummed. “I’ll be downstairs.”

She closed the door, and he went to sit by the massive fireplace in the main room. Only a few minutes passed before the bedroom door opened again and Hawke stepped out. She looked nearly as she always had, but for the darkness below her eyes, and the hollows within them. He offered his arm. She rested her hand lightly on him, and he felt a piece of himself settle back into place.

They walked from Hightown to Low, dodging laughing children and entangled couples. A rush of families stopped them as they tried to go down a set of wide steps, chattering about the carnival setting up outside the city walls. A carnival. Varric knew what they’d be doing that evening. He watched Hawke as they wove through Lowtown, watched as she unfurled like a forest after the fire.

He approached the address, praying to the god of all petty things that the dogs wouldn’t bark and give him away. He must have been heard, because they were silent until he knocked on the door. Hawke’s eyes widened at the wall of sound then, barking and wailing, deep, commanding woofs and high, mouthy yips that tried so hard to emulate them. She looked down at Varric and drew a deep breath.

“Shaddap, Bergie, shaddap, Snoots! Sit!” A harried, middle-aged woman opened the door. “Yeah? What’s it?”

Varric dropped a slight bow. “M’lady. I’m in search of the finest mabari in all of Kirkwall, and a man of excellent taste gave me this address.”

She laughed. “What’s a dwarf want with mabari? Going to ride it?” The black mabari barked, and Varric could swear it was laughing too. “Yeah Bergie! That’s what I said!”

Hawke smiled. Really smiled, all the way up to those green eyes. She looked from Varric to the woman, and from the woman to the dogs. One was solid black, massive in the chest with a mouth full of white teeth and eyes of pure mischief. The other was fawn, less broad but still powerful, with a black spotted tongue that rolled from his doggy lips in good nature.

“Mabari’s not for the dwarf, sister,” she said, thickening her accent. “Mabari’s for me. I en’t had a dog since I was twelve and mine died protecting his family.”

The lady’s face grew solemn. “What’s his name, then?”

Hawke smiled. “Dog. Was me first word as a babe, so that’s what we called him.”

She nodded. “Rest easy, Dog. You’re a good boy.” She looked down at him. “Well dwarf, your friend said true. Bergie’s whelped a baker’s dozen, but most are spoken for. Come in, come see who all’s left.”

She led them through the tenement and opened a room that smelled hugely of dog. The pups were a riot of earthy color from deepest black to snowy white. Bergie stepped carefully through them to lay on her side. They galloped to her, tugging her shorn ear, nipping the scruff at her neck. She lolled happily under their rough affection.

“Now, all the blacks is taken,” the woman said. “And this toffee brindle besides. That yeller, and that, and the one at her ear is going to the docks, and the white’s off to Hightown. That leaves the toffee, the fawn, and the cream brindle.” 

Hawke sat on the floor as the woman pointed them out. The three came trotting over, knowing they’d been called. They cavorted in Hawke’s lap for a moment, but were soon distracted by a fierce game of tug between their brothers and sisters. Hawke watched them go, deflating just a bit. Oh, oh no. This wouldn’t do.

“M’lady, they’re a fine bunch, but my friend mentioned another I don’t see here. He said it was dark as black coffee, with a brindle like caramel.”

She sniffed. “Ach, the runt. Hang on.” 

She left the room. Hawke raised an eyebrow. Varric shrugged. She returned with a squealing, nipping pup and a hand full of red bites.

“This is her. Right pain in the ass, this one. Gotta keep her separate from the others or she nips ‘em bloody. Gas like you wouldn’t believe.”

The pup squirmed from the woman’s hands and charged Varric, snarling. He jumped up and back, hands out before him like the blighted bronto trainers in Orzammar. Hawke scooped her up as she ran by, supporting her deep chest in one hand and the soft belly with the other. She and the pup locked eyes. A stillness settled over the room as they regarded each other, measuring the gulf between them and finding it shallow. The pup whined, and licked her nose. Hawke grinned enough to light up the room. The woman guffawed, clapping her hands.

“Maker’s holy backside, she likes you! Oh bless, Teach’ll be chuffed. He reckoned we’d never be rid of the wee demon. Let her down now, see what the others make of her.”

Hawke released the pup and her siblings gathered around her, sniffing and curious. She allowed it, preening like royalty, and when they went to Bergie’s side, they let her have first choice. The woman sighed.

“She needed you, sister. She needed you like crops need the summer rain.” She looked at them. “Blessed Summerday, friends. You can collect her in three weeks, but she needs a name now. Otherwise she’s like to forget, and I’ll have to go back separating them.”

Hawke smiled, watching her new pup nurse at the great grey belly with her siblings.

“Mace.”

The woman nodded. “Mace, you hear that?” The pup let out a squeaky whine, and she grinned. “Mace. Fine choice, sister. Can you see yourselves out? I ought to stay and make sure this peace holds.”

Varric offered his arm, and they returned to Lowtown’s dusty streets. The door had hardly shut behind them when Hawke bent to sweep him into a crushing hug. He returned it, surprised, as a tingle washed through him from spine to fingertips. She sighed in his arms, and he shifted his cheek against her neck, his brain catching the intention of his lips at the last possible moment. He broke away before he could kiss her in front of everyone in that sun-drenched square.

“How did you know?” she asked.

He smiled, evasive. “Do you know how it pained me to hear you called dog lord while you didn't have a dog? Sure it's tame as insults go, but the slander hurt.” He elbowed her. “Mace, though? I thought I was your mace.”

She wrinkled her nose at him. “A mabari needs a name that means something, that’s as much a part of its owner as breath and bone. I could hardly call her Varric.” She shrugged and started walking. “That’s taken.”

He watched her go, and not even Bianca’s solid weight could slow his thoughts. She turned back when she realized he wasn’t at her side. She caught his attention and tilted her head onward— _well, come on then,_ so casual he recovered enough to trot after her.

He didn’t have a destination in mind, so it surprised neither of them when they ended up standing below the swinging hanged man. He opened the door for her, bowing like a blushing gallant as she stepped over the threshold. She grinned at him and dropped a favor into his outstretched hand. He looked down to see a floaty patch of shed dog fur. He groaned and turned his palm to let it drift to the floor. Corff slid two foamy tankards to them the moment their elbows hit the bar.

“Hawke!” he said cheerily. “Long time! Good to see you haven’t left us for them high class taverns up near your new estate.”

“Corff, I’m surprised at you,” she said. “When have I ever struck you as a high class type?”

“Well, there was the time you struck me with a highball glass,” he said with a grin, “but that’s water under the bridge. Who’s buying this fine Summerday?”

“I am,” Hawke and Varric said at once. They mock-glared at each other.

“Whoa, whoa!” Corff held up his hands. “Alright. In the spirit of the holiday, they’re on the house. Can’t be the source of a lovers’ spat on Summerday,” he said with a shiver, “Maker’s breath, that’s bad luck for the rest of the year!”

“Lovers?” Hawke said.

“Spat?” Varric said.

They looked at each other and shrugged.

“Free drinks!” Hawke said, and took a long swallow.

They passed a few pleasant hours there, holding a private wake for the Hawke and Varric they left in the Deep Roads. She confessed she wasn’t sleeping at night. He confessed the same. She confessed a new fear of the dark. He shivered in empathy. She asked about the artifacts they’d dredged from the thaig, and he was quiet for a moment. He looked at her over his ale, taking a leisurely sip while he took in her curiosity, her interest, her soft affection. 

“I have a lead on an expert,” he said.

“Is it all reclaimed, then?”

“You should come see, if you can bear to be away from that fancy estate.”

She twisted her lips into a half grin. “Ah. Mother’s been keeping in touch?”

He hummed. “You’ve worried her,” he said. “Though if I’m honest, which is rarely, I’d admit to wanting to do the same thing. Just,” he waved at the tavern, “hole up in here til the pain stops.”

She drained her ale. “Holing up doesn’t stop the pain, Varric.” She raked her eyes over him, making sure he saw her do it. “You have, though.”

He dropped a shallow bow from his barstool to cover the jump in his pulse. 

“Pleased to be of service, Lady Hawke.”

She giggled. He set his ale down and slid from the stool. She unfolded behind him.

“Where to now, painkiller?” she asked.

“Carnival,” he said.

“Carnival?”

He turned to throw a look of disbelief over his shoulder. “Carnival. Fried dough, smoked shanks, big sparkly amusements?” She shrugged. “Are you telling me,” he paused, “that your parents never took you to a carnival?”

She pointed to herself. “Fereldan. We had festivals?”

He shook his head. “Not remotely the same, and now we are definitely going to the carnival.”

She followed hesitantly, so he took her hand and all but dragged her through the Lowtown sunset and out the city gates. She stopped in her tracks, making him let go when they spied it. He pursed his lips. If he were being honest, which as established was almost never, he’d say it was a pretty poor carnival. Arcade row was marked with grimy, tattered booths and a lonely test of strength, and the amusements consisted of a pony walk, a nug petting paddock, some kind of mechanized whirligig, and one rickety skywheel powered by the saddest bronto he’d ever seen. He looked back at her, preparing some derisive quip.

“Varric?”

“Yes, Hawke?”

“It’s… amazing!”

He swallowed his choice bit of ridicule and offered his arm. She took it, her step light, her eyes aglow. He brought her to the refreshment stand first and bought a greasy packet of fried dough, covered in a blizzard’s worth of powdered sugar that made them both cough. She tore into it with her fingers, laughing and dusted with splotches of pure white. They walked through the torch-lit twilight of arcade alley, pointing at the tests of skill, until they came to the test of strength. Hawke’s eyes gleamed.

“Step right up, lady, step right up,” the carny called.

Hawke stepped up. She held out her hand for the mallet. The carny raised an eyebrow at Varric.

“How much to play, serah?” he asked.

“Three coppers for one try, five coppers for five. Ring the bell and get a prize!”

“Five it is,” Varric said.

Varric gave him a silver. The man scowled as he dug for change, and handed Hawke the mallet. She stepped up to the one marked “Warriors,” and the carny held up his hands.

“M’lady, there’s one for you to this side,” he said, leading her to a different test marked “Her Ladyship.” It was much smaller.

Hawke cocked an eyebrow at Varric. “Guess Hightown’s rubbed off a bit, hey?” she said. She turned to the carny. “I appreciate your concern, serah, but the other’s got my name on it.” 

She stepped in front of the “Warriors” test. The carny shuffled her back to “Her Ladyship.” A small crowd gathered, drawn to the theater between the confident lady and the surly carny. She pulled away from the grizzled old man with a charming smile that raised the hairs at the back of Varric’s neck. He crossed his arms and grinned.

She took a step back from “Her Ladyship” and hefted the mallet, testing its balance. She shifted her grip, lifted it over her head, and brought it down with a crash. The ringer shot into the bell and through, sounding it with a brief _shink_ as it blew an exit hole through the top. The crowd gasped and cheered, and the carny’s scowl deepened. Hawke looked from the mallet to the broken test, and back to the carny.

“My friend paid for five…” 

The carny stepped aside and waved to the “Warriors.” She moved to this one and measured one step back from the lever. The crowd had grown with the destruction of “Her Ladyship,” and Hawke grinned at them. She waved to the kids, lifted the mallet over her head, and brought it down. The ringer shot to the bell and buried itself into the brass curve with a short, warped _don-ng._

The carny’s jaw popped in anger. The crowd grew. She stepped to the third test, labeled “Dwarva.” Varric lifted a brow, but Hawke looked excited. She set the mallet down and rubbed her palms, letting the crowd grow as the chatter drew more curious onlookers. She hefted the mallet, making a few practice swings in the small clearing. A sharp glint appeared in her eye, and she smashed the mallet into the lever with all of her being. The carny braced for impact, and breathed a sigh of relief when it stopped at “Smith Caste.” 

Varric clapped her on the back. “Damn good show, Hawke. That one’s hardly built for humans, and you’re only one off winning that big stuffed nug!”

She looked at the nug, bigger than a sheep, utterly ridiculous, and obviously quite old. She shrugged and started to walk away, to a chorus of “no” and “stay” and “you have two more chances!” from the crowd. Varric sighed. He lifted the mallet and looked at the last unbroken test. The carny looked him up and down and huffed. Varric smiled at him, lifted the mallet, and brought it down with all of _his_ strength. 

The ringer flew clear through the bell to land in the audience behind them. Someone caught it and the crowd went nuts, cheering and clapping for their wanton destruction of private property. The carny unhooked the nug and threw it at them, yelling all the while to get the hell out of arcade alley and stay out. They left laughing, hampered by the gigantic toy that was as cheaply made as it was huge. Hawke gave it to a family with eight young children who’d been among the first to stop. She threw her arm over his shoulders, and he steered them toward the amusements.

“What’s that?” she asked, pointing at the whirligig.

“Looks like a teacup spinner, makes you dizzy. Drink a pitcher, twirl yourself around, and save me the coin,” he said with a grin.

She bumped him with her hip. “How about the tall one?”

“The skywheel? You’ve never been… of course you haven’t.” A fluttering filled his chest. “Alright.”

He paid for two rounds and they waited for the cabin to come down, each nervous for their own reasons. The bronto huffed in his harness, grateful for the short breather while they settled in. The seats were narrow and pressed their legs together no matter how they shifted, so as the thing resumed its circular course with a sharp start, they silently agreed to remain that way, their legs locked around each other, their arms leaning carefully back along the side. He watched Hawke watch the ground drop away. He’d been on far grander skywheels, but Hawke had never so much as seen one before. Her eyes grew huge as she looked out over the carnival, over the walls beyond.

“They’re all so small,” she said softly. “It looks so peaceful.”

“That’s distance for you,” he said, thinking of his meeting with Bianca that afternoon.

She looked at him then, those green eyes studying his. They flicked to his lips and she sighed, then went further, his stubbled chin, his short, thick neck. Those sparrows whipped up a storm in his gut, feathers flying as her fingers curled on the cold sides of their skywheel cabin.

“Copper for your thoughts,” he croaked out, desperate to fill the crackling air.

“I—”

The skywheel ground to a halt. Their cabin swung noisily, only one section from the top. They looked down to see the bronto being unhitched, a fresh one waiting to the side. She looked at him, wary.

“Changing the brontos,” he said. “We’ll move again in a few minutes.”

She nodded, and he noticed she was taking deep breaths to calm herself. He laid his hand on her knee, unthinking. She flinched under him. He took it away, but she shook her head.

“Leave it. I just wasn’t expecting…” She looked at him. He put it back. “Why do you do that?” she asked.

He had a feeling he knew, but, “Do what?” 

“You reach for me, but draw away the moment I react. You want to stay, I can see it in your eyes, but you’re scared, so scared.” She put her hand over his. “What are you scared of, Varric Tethras?”

He rested his hand on her knee, caught between wanting and fearing. He played a furious game of truth-or-not-truth. Not-truth won.

“What do you want, Hawke?”

She cocked her head. He watched her connect his question with the accusation she’d flung at him a lifetime ago. Wetness gathered in her tired eyes, and she blinked it away. A single tear rolled down her cheek. He brushed it away with his thumb, and cupped her cheek with his palm. She sniffed. 

“Tonight?” She inhaled, a tiny hiccup in her chest. “Not to be alone.”

He stroked her cheek and pressed into her hair, drawing her close. She leaned in, lips parted. He studied her eyes, the gold-flecked green, the ache, the exhaustion. 

“Okay,” he said. “We can start with that.”

She closed the distance. He pulled her to him, rocking the cabin on its pivot. She kissed him with a hunger, lips devouring while her tongue led them deeper into their abandon. Her fingers splayed on his chest, one hand trailing to rest at his neck, the other sliding through the thatch of golden hair to his shoulder, fingers digging into the slab of muscle there. He took as much of her as his hands would fit, her hip, her waist, her thigh. The cabin hindered them, too small to move, too precarious to shift. She broke away to rest her forehead on him, her breath heavy. He nudged her back to press his lips on hers, his hand at the back of her neck, the taste of her on his tongue. The skywheel jerked to life, separating them. He pulled away, running his fingers through her hair as it resumed its course.

“Hanged Man?” he asked, his voice rough.

“Hanged Man,” she agreed.


	12. *Summer Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut ahead! I've bumped the rating to explicit with this. Thanks for advising, @crackinglamb!
> 
> 1/22/2020 note: This is slated for a major rewrite. If you like it as it is, take a moment to grab a copy for yourself! I probably won't be in the right headspace to overhaul it until I've finished the first act, so it will be a few weeks before it's changed.
> 
> 3/16/2020 note: And we have a re-write! More psychology, a mite less biology.

They leapt from the skywheel as it came down. The carny called after them, but Varric had no care for the copper he’d spent on the second ride and less for the edge of disapproval in the man’s tone. Their feet carried them through the carnival, irritatingly far more crowded than when they’d arrived. Instinct took over when they passed through the city gates, and Varric sent up a rare offering of thanks to his ancestors for his unfailing sense of Kirkwall’s ancient routes. This would be a terrifically bad time to get lost.

They stopped for nothing until they got to his rooms, breathless and trembling. Hawke reached for him as he threw the bolt. He spun and put his hands at her hips, walking her backward to his low bed with a wicked glint in his eye. She swayed in time with his steps and sucked in a breath when he slid his thumbs below her cuirass. A small voice screamed in the back of his mind, _this isn’t right, this isn’t her, you promised, you swore._ Hawke’s legs hit the edge of his bed and she sank down slowly. She gazed up at him, darkened eyes, parted lips. He shoved those tenacious doubts into a small, dark closet and slammed the door. Hang the promises he’d made so many years ago. How many times had they been broken? 

Varric took Hawke’s face in his hands and kissed her, filling every sense to brimming. The remaining shreds of hesitation fled before her eager answer. When they parted there was room for naught but _yes. Yes_ this is happening. _Yes_ this is the answer they chased for so long. Do they take the leap? Do they risk the break? Is this worth whatever suffering will surely follow? _Yes._

He cast his focus to her armor. Even in the heat of confessed desire, there were needs to be tended. The laces parted before him, her leather sighing in his sure fingers. She watched him work, oddly soft and removed. He wondered what she was thinking. He removed her gauntlets and placed a kiss in each rough palm, to let her know how he loved her hard places. He pulled the cuirass from her chest and set it carefully with the rest, because he knew the value of things. He unlaced her boots and tugged them from her neglected feet, tenderly, because she was never tender with them. 

He moved to her trousers, leather boned with thin metal plate, belts full of poison and knives even then. His fingers began to shake at her quiet acquiescence. She covered his hands with hers, still and sure, and distracted him with a kiss. When she released him, he looked down to see the leather sloughing open, loose and waiting for him. He knelt at her feet to gather the stiff armor in his hands. He tightened his grip, focus drawn to the tension in the metal, the resistance in the thick leather. He met her gaze, dark and distant. She raised her hips. He pulled as heat swelled low in his belly, as his cock pressed insistently against the confinement of his own trousers. 

The slow downward slide revealed honey dark skin crossed with a lace of scars. She folded her long legs away before he could begin to understand why, or how, or when. She reached for him and he met her, his mind reeling at this new depth to which they’d plunged. His duster slumped to the floor behind him, and the prick of cool air raised the tiny hairs at the back of his neck. Deft fingers loosened the sash at his waist, the straps and laces of his trousers. They fell. She drew a light finger over the curve of his erection and the breath in his chest shuddered with quickly unraveling restraint. He frowned at her. Laughter danced in her eyes, teasing and light. He stepped out of the pool of cloth and calfskin and dove down onto her lips, daring her to laugh again. She met him with a hunger, the smile consumed with need, the laughter swallowed by the indelible pull of their destination.

They both had way too many goddamn clothes on. He broke away and moved properly onto the bed, guiding her up to lay with him. He watched the feline curve and grace of her body as she pushed up, the swell of her shoulder, the glide of soft ridges in the linen along her back. He lost himself for a moment, conjuring just the words to describe how she flowed over his scarlet cover. She noticed. He returned with a loose smile and ran his fingers through her hair.

“There you are,” she said, trailing her fingers over his chest. 

“You found me,” he said. “Choose your prize.”

She considered him. Her eyes traveled to the golden rings at his ears, down his stubbled jaw, his neck with its quickened pulse and heavy chain. They took in the fine embroidery of his silk tunic, skirted over his chest to his lips, lingered at the break in his nose, and came to a rest at his amber eyes that danced with… well. He wasn’t going to name that. Not yet.

“The tunic.”

He pushed up with a grin and pulled it over his head, tossing it behind him as he turned back to her. She took him in, the freckles that dusted his heavy shoulders, the thatch of dark golden hair on his chest, the trail that ended well below the band of his smalls. She bit her lip to see the outline of his erection. He twitched, searing arousal answering her keen interest. She dragged her eyes up to meet his, the barest glint of uncertainty at the center of her brow. He laid back down on his side, tucking his bare need away for the moment. 

“Your turn, serah,” she said.

He raised a brow. “An eye for an eye, a tunic for a tunic,” he said, daring her to deny him.

She rose to his gentle taunt, sitting up to carefully pull the threadbare cloth from her shoulders. Something broke between them, some unspoken agreement nullified. She turned from him to watch her father’s tunic flutter to the floor. He watched her, the haphazard pattern of scars slashed and torn, the knitting of skin, some rough and burned, others nearly prim in their perfection. She turned back to him, guarded. He met her eyes with soft concern.

“What…” He didn’t know how to ask. He didn’t know if it was allowed.

“What happened?” 

She knew. How many others had taken one look and turned away, disgusted? Noblewomen weren’t supposed to be damaged in ways that left a mark. He nodded.

“A son of a bitch,” she said, shrugging off the chill when he made no move to leave. “I begged to join Carver’s lessons in arms, but the instructor chafed at teaching a girl. I was too young to know training blades are meant to be dull.” She traced a particularly long and jagged scar at her ribs. “I suppose it was for the best. Fire mages don’t usually learn to heal. Beth taught herself by practicing on me.” 

Varric hissed in dismay. “How long…?”

“Four months. Father found him ‘teaching’ me when he came home after several weeks away.” She shivered. “I’d never seen him so furious. He beat the man within an inch of his life, shattered both his hands, and we fled for the next town. He found a willing teacher for me there, an alchemist and sometime royal assassin, and the rest, as they say, is history.”

Varric dropped his gaze and followed her fingers with his own, tracing the scar at her ribs. She let him, watching for any sign of doubt. He had none. She closed her eyes then, granting him a rare and precious permission, trusting he wouldn’t squander it. He accepted with clear eyes, smoothing his palm over the pocked skin at her hip, bowing to kiss the crossed lines at the top of her clavicle. She shuddered at the press of his lips and he leaned away to see her watching him, serious and still. 

She unbound her breasts. They fell softly as she shrugged out of the tight cloth, the dark nipples stiffening with their release. He swept his hand up her side to run his thumb below them, a question. She reached for him, answering with a kiss. Her lips devoured as his palm curved around her soft, heavy flesh, her breath hitching when he circled the nipple with his thumb. He broke away to follow his hands, to increase his stores of knowledge by the factors of taste and scent. 

He was surprised to find he already knew. Every moment they’d spent curled around each other in the deep had left an imprint in his mind, and he’d never noticed. Her scent enveloped him, warm and animal, salts specific to her private alchemy. She smelled of smoke and musk, of earth and life. She smelled like home. Like _his_ home. Sun-touched, as he was. He held her in his hands and in his mouth, overcome with fresh hunger. A soft moan escaped her throat at his renewed desire, and he answered with his own low rumble.

She drew him up to her lips and fell back, pulling him down atop her. He caught himself and kissed her soundly, tongue delving after hers, pulling away, nipping her bottom lip, letting himself be drawn down again as her hands roved the topography of corded muscle at his back. Her fingers slipped below his smallclothes, and he raised up to let her slide them down. His cock pulsed at the sweet release and he groaned, pressing against her belly, slick with need. She trembled to feel his silken skin against her, and he broke away to study this new reaction.

“Alright?” he asked.

She twinged her lips into a rueful grin. “Mm. Better than that. You’re, ah… very different than the others.” Her hips rolled lightly and he felt himself sized up, observed, inspected. The grin faded, replaced by something aching and barely contained. She swallowed it down and the grin returned. “First time with a dwarf and all.”

He pressed a chaste kiss to her lips, then raised up to hook his fingers below her smalls. “May I?” 

“Maker, I thought you’d never ask,” she said, lifting her hips with that lopsided grin. 

He followed his hands, sliding lightly down the extravagant length of her body. She flicked her smalls away when he reached her toes. He dragged his eyes up her legs, up, up along the dark, fine hair, the odd scar at her shins, the swarm of them on her thighs. He went farther, shifting his perspective to see all of her arranged on his red coverlet like a Satinalia feast. She was taking him in as well, her frank gaze studying the subtle outward curve of his belly, the wide head of his cock pressing lightly against it. Doubt flickered through those perfect green eyes. Oh no, that wouldn’t do.

Varric parted her legs with a gentle hand. They fell open before him to reveal her, all of her, soft flesh and hard muscle. He glanced up to her eyes. She watched and waited, knowing what she offered, neither faint nor fading before him. Blighted ancestors, that look did things to him. He put his mouth to the inside of one dusky thigh, trailing nips and soft kisses down its length. Her breath hissed in her teeth as he neared her core, but he ghosted over it with a soft exhale.

“Sod it all, Varric, you’re a horrible tease,” she said, her voice strained.

He chuckled into the skin of her other thigh. “Didn’t hear a safe word in there,” he said.

She whined in reply as he gave the second leg the same attention. At last he turned to her center, unable to resist the heady scent of her arousal. He parted her nether lips with gentle fingers and she gasped, clenching the sheets in her hands. He slid the edge of his thumb into her folds, flattered at how wet she was for him. His tongue followed, tasting for the first time the flesh that had haunted his quiet hours. It sent shocks though his mind, alien and familiar at once. He needed more. She moaned and ran her fingers through his hair, pressing their tips into his scalp as he went deeper, grazing her clit with care. Her hips bucked softly, desperate for a firmer touch. He chuckled and looked up.

”Varric Tethras if you stop now I swear to all that is—”

He pressed a thick finger into her and she left off with a clenched teeth cry. He worked into her slowly, pressing in, releasing, pressing deeper. He put his mouth to work and sank into her to his palm, keeping a slow tempo of press, release, as she writhed beneath him. She grabbed for his other hand and he gave it to her, holding her hips down with his forearm. He flicked her nub with a gentle tongue, feeling for the moment when it became too much. He chanced a firmer touch and she flinched away, barely, but he understood. He lifted his head to watch her, his breath hard in his chest as her scent filled him.

“Please,” she whispered, rolling her hips against him. 

He put his mouth to her again, tongue parting up one side, down the other. He curled the finger inside her, seeking the spot he hoped would send her over the edge. She cried out at the new friction and rolled her hips in a frenzy. He pressed down on her belly, a moan in his throat as his tongue caressed her tip at last. She came with a keening wail, her core pulsing on his hand, her fingers digging into his scalp. He leaned away as she came down and held steady inside her, letting her ride her release as she wanted. Maker’s breath, she was perfect in her delirium.

She fell bonelessly to the bed, thighs pressed together in the aftershocks. He slid his finger from her and sat up, filing the image away for later. She reached for him when she’d caught her breath. He laid on his side, casually wiping her sex from his mouth.

“Did you learn to do that in your finishing school for scoundrels?” she asked, still a bit winded.

He hummed an amused assent. “Enhanced interrogation and confidence techniques. Passed with flying colors.”

She exhaled noisily. He hooked her opposite leg in his and rolled her to sit astride him. She shifted to straddle his thighs, the base of his cock nestled against her slick heat. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly between pursed lips.

“Your turn?” she asked with a gleam in her eye.

He shrugged and put his hands behind his head. “Have your wicked way with me, m’lady.”

She slid farther down him, her pink tongue darting out. He trembled. This wasn’t what he’d meant, but damned if he was going to stop her. She dropped until her mouth was level with the tip of his cock, studying it like an alchemist with an interesting specimen. She wrapped her hand around his shaft. The breadth of her fingers covered his length, but his girth broke the circle of her grasp. She traced the gap with her tongue from base to tip, and his breath escaped, _hah,_ when she tasted the bead of arousal there. She squeezed gently and swirled her tongue around the head, pausing at the most sensitive place just below to press full into it. He throbbed at her touch, a rush of blood both delicious and perilous. He drew away and she released him, amused.

“Best not, Hawke. Not unless you want this to be over before it starts.”

She prowled over him to claim his lips, and he moaned to taste himself on her tongue. He slid his hands down her sleek sides to her hips, positioning her cleft to rest snugly on the breadth of his shaft. She rolled gently on him, and he twitched to feel her mark him with her arousal. He met her eyes and swallowed hard. She saw a shade of doubt flick over him.

“Are you sure about this, Varric?” she asked, concerned.

He took her in, the worry in her eyes, the determination, the care. He was struck by her duality, the ruthless killer, the devoted friend and daughter. She was hard and soft in all the right places, the edge of her fury turned ever away from those she loved. He was struck by the realization, that included him.

He grinned. “I am. Are you?” He flexed against her, watching as her lips formed a soft _oh._ “Once you go dwarva, for the others it’s over.”

She snorted, laughing as the worry dropped away. “Andraste’s dimpled arse, Varric! That’s it. This was a terrible idea. I’m leaving you to your doggerel, you crazy little—”

He shifted, aligning his tip with her cleft. “Ah-ah,” he said, “remember what I said about ‘dwarven’ and ‘small’ not being synonymous?”

She shivered at the touch, biting her lip with a moan. He stopped, needing to be sure.

“Yes?” he asked, not trusting his voice farther.

“Yes,” she breathed.

She canted her hips to catch him within. His slick flesh parted hers easily at first, but, ah, there was the resistance he knew so well. He held himself completely still but for the thudding in his chest, which he couldn’t have controlled if he’d tried. A tiny line of concentration formed between her brows as she rose up slightly and settled a bit farther down, and a bit farther again. He rested his hands on her hips, supporting her, letting her do what she needed. She was warm and wet and tight and _Maker’s breath_ it was all he could do to keep from thrusting into her. He waited.

At last she lowered herself down to him with a sigh. He exhaled, clenching her hips and pressing into her for the first time. Her breath hitched and her walls squeezed him, adjusting to his girth. He raised an eyebrow, _okay?_ She bit her lip and nodded, rocking into him. He drew her down to his lips, needing to be twice joined, completing the circle that bound them. She rolled her hips on him and he thrust into her, a rush of warmth as she softened, yielding around him. 

They pressed harder and he found himself flush against her, buried to the hilt. The shock of it stilled him until she moaned into his mouth and rolled harder, lighting a new ferocity between them. He drew away to thrust again, hard and slow as he had all those months ago at the inn, watching as they joined, still not fully believing what body and mind told him. She gasped and dug her nails into his chest, the pinpricks of pain sharpening his desire. Their eyes locked, naked and raw, spilling every wordless secret.

She drove into him with each thrust, her incredible strength balanced perfectly against the engine of his core. He sank into her again and again, needing to be deeper, needing to disappear completely. She breathed through her teeth and he lifted his head to kiss her fiercely. She melted into him, breaking the kiss, her forehead on the pillow, her rough breath in his ear. He turned to put his mouth on her neck, to suck her smooth, mineral skin. Their hips beat a steady tattoo, wet skin noisy in the airy rooms.

She faltered, tired, and he tapped her side. She flopped to the bed with a huff. He swallowed to see her. Hawke, spread on his red cover, open for him, waiting for him, _only_ for him. He knelt between her thighs, settling a hand to either side of her breasts. She wrapped him in her long legs and lifted her hips. He slid home, sheathed to the hilt in one smooth motion. They sighed together, breath shaking in the bottom of their lungs. He started slowly, but her nails dug into his lower back and goaded him faster, and faster still. He reared up to watch. She reached down to knuckle her clit, and he flushed at the sight. The physics of their joining pulled him ever onward, the withdrawal, the disappearing act. Her motion became erratic as her fingers spooled her up tight enough to snap.

She did. He held her as she bucked wildly against him, a blush spreading across her chest, the hand at her center moving to grab his thigh, the other pressed against his headboard as she arched from the mattress, wordless in her cry of release. He slowed his pace, lost in the press of her orgasm around him. He measured his breath as she caught hers, his own tipping point in sight. She huffed a silent laugh.

“You’re forgiven for the doggerel, Varric. It may have been awful, but at least it was true.”

He nuzzled her cheek, pressing kisses along her jaw. “I’m glad you can admit when you’re wrong, Hawke. Do you know what that is?” She shifted away to raise an eyebrow at him. “Growth.”

She laughed and grabbed the back of his neck, rolling her hips against him as she devoured his lips once more. His response was immediate, hips juddering hard against her as she challenged him to go faster, deeper, hot and welcoming, wanting to be filled as desperately as he wanted to fill her. Their breath came ragged and his rhythm stuttered, his cock flushing with its final tension. He pulled away to grip himself in his thick fingers. He glanced up, a question. She nodded, fascinated. He came on her belly with a harsh moan, striping her dusky, scarred skin with his seed. He trembled at the release and sighed as the last waves coursed through him, weakening his muscles, suffusing them with a soft warmth. He swept a gentle finger on his oversensitive tip, pulling the last pearly drop away. She leaned over the bed and came up with a handful of cloth — her smalls — and threw them at him.

“Here,” she said grinning, “wash this.”

He laughed and wiped himself from her skin, then her from his swiftly deflating cock. He tossed the sticky cloth away and flopped beside her, loosing the breath he’d held for Maker knew how long. She threw one of her ridiculous legs over his waist and twined the back of her knee around his ass, squeezing. He propped himself up on an elbow and studied her.

“So,” he said.

“So,” she answered.

“Do I get to know the secret of your given name now?” he asked, a twinkle in his eye.

She laughed. “Andraste’s clapping ass cheeks, Varric. Fuck me like that again, and you can have every secret I’ve ever kept and some I’ve made up for fun. I’ll even tell you which is which.”

She played with his loose hair, twirling it around her fingers. The blush remained on her chest. He pressed with a finger. It blanched, and returned even darker when he released. She snorted and batted his hand away. The room smelled roundly of sex, leather, and melted candle wax. He moved his scorned hand to her waist to trail light fingers along her side and watched the fine hairs rise in response. She didn’t seem in a hurry to speak again.

“Well?” he asked. She said her name. “I missed that. Sir-sha? What kind of a—”

“Saoirse,” she said, smiling. “It’s from an old southern Fereldan language, back when they were different nations. Means ‘freedom.’ I was supposed to represent their freedom,” she said, her smile fading. “That worked out well for everyone.”

He lifted her chin. “Hey.” She looked at him. “We’re not responsible for the shit our parents try to lay on us.”

Her smile returned, and she pressed it to his lips. He kissed her, soft and slow, breathing in her scent, his. She broke away and rolled from the bed.

“Gotta piss,” she said, picking up his tunic. “Mind if I borrow this?”

He shook his head. She pulled it on and ancestor’s great dangly bits, filled it out in all the right ways. The open chest dropped nearly to her navel and kept her breasts just barely contained, and the bottom hem brushed dangerously on the lowest curve of her ass. His cock stirred at the sight, even as his belly twinged at the thought of another go so soon. She opened the door, and when the coast was clear, ran in silent feet to the washroom.

When she returned she found him lying on his back, gazing at the ceiling. He rolled his head lazily to watch her approach, a soft twitch at his groin as he feasted his eyes on her in that Maker damned tunic. She bit her lip and ran a finger down the open buttons, revealing the soft curves beneath. He swelled to attention at the heat in her eyes and grabbed her before she could react. They fell to the bed in a laughing tumble.

“I’m keeping the tunic, Varric.”

He pushed it up and pinned her to the bed, settling himself between her thighs. She wrapped those long legs around his waist, teasing him. He teased right back, dipping slowly into her, tip, retreat, tip, half, retreat. She closed her eyes.

“Damn right you are,” he said, sheathing himself inside her.

“And for the future,” she said when she could speak again, “you don’t need to pull out.” He flexed within her, a rush of desire at her meaning. “Beth sealed me when she did herself, at the inn. Mercenary work doesn’t lend itself well to parenthood, after all.”

He kissed her with a moan, flush with the thought of spilling into her at last, the heat of that morning at the Songs and all the little moments that came before and after surging through him. She gripped his lower back, wanting more of him. _Only_ him.

He gave.

He gave her everything.


	13. *Fault Lines

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: A little early morning smut to start things off. Not as explicit as last chapter. Over at the line, "He froze. She wouldn't, would she. Stay."

He woke like a gentleman of leisure, a languid rising to the surface. The sheets slid softly on his skin as the subtle stink of the tavern downstairs tickled his nose. He stretched his aching muscles, and he paused when he met a strange resistance. His eyes opened. There was a woman in his bed, her back to him, her round backside the resistance he’d met. He lifted the sheets to see himself nestled against her. She sighed and reached back to pull his hips closer. He thrust playfully and she moaned, quiet, and pressed back on him.

Hawke chuckled. “Good morning to you too, Varric.”

“Is it morning already?” he asked. “Feels like I fell asleep only an hour ago.”

She rolled over to face him. “The sunlight shining under your door says it’s well past dawn,” she said with a grin. “And my belly says we missed breakfast.”

He kissed her, dragon breath and all. She twined her fingers through his hair and fell back, pulling him between her legs. He slid a possessive finger over her center and grinned to discover a very warm welcome there. She pulled his hand up with a huff. He shifted to slide into her and they sighed at the joining, lips parted, teeth pearly in the late morning light. 

They were slow, muzzy and aching in the sweetest ways from the night before. He tired quickly. She pressed him down to lay on his side. He raised an eyebrow, but she smiled and shook her head. She threw one of those long, long legs over his waist and tipped him down, pulling his knee over her when they were aligned. He slid home, closing his eyes with a groan at this new angle. She hissed through her teeth, clutching his heavy thigh against her belly and rolling her hips, greedy for every last inch of him. 

He smoothed her flyaway hair with a light touch, a smile playing about his lips. She ran her fingers through the hair on his chest, alternately smoothing and ruffling the deep golden threads. She pressed into the broad muscle there, trembling when he flexed into her. He rested his hand on her neck, drawing his thumb along her jaw, watching her mouth as she rocked against him, teeth catching her lip, lips parting in a sigh. He glanced up to her eyes and lost himself in the pull of her desire, strange and unexpected as it was to be desired by her. 

“Copper for your thoughts,” she said.

“What will your mother say when you sneak home?”

She laughed, pressing down on him. He thrust deeper to feel the secret workings of her amusement. She stopped laughing with a sigh. Damn.

“She’s never said anything before. Not that I make a habit of staying the night.” She arched an eyebrow, but he couldn’t read her.

“Oh we have _habits,_ do we?”

She slapped his chest lightly. He grinned, egging her on. She squeezed her leg around him, pressing into his lower back until he couldn’t move. He let her imprison him, content to stay in her cage of limb and core.

“Not as such, you scoundrel. Still…” she hesitated, drawing circles around his nipple until it stood pebbled from his chest. Her eyes flicked to Bianca, resting in her place of honor by the door. “Still, it’s best if I don’t. Stay.”

He froze. She wouldn’t, would she. Stay.

A well opened beneath him, sucking the light from him whole to drown in its inky depths. He swallowed the sudden absence and took his hand from her neck, patting her leg to release him as he drew away. She let him up, confused.

“Varric… where are you—”

He cleared his throat. “Hungry? The mash is the best thing they make here.”

She nodded, her brows furrowed as she turned to watch him dress. He tried not to follow her thighs as they slid on each other. She wanted company last night, that’s all. A good fuck, a warm body to curl around, not…

Not _that._ Shit, he didn’t know if he did, either. That… that was nothing but no news, bad news, and trouble every day. Really, this was best. Casual. He could do casual. 

He tied the new sash around his tunic, annoyed when it set wrinkles into the red silk, and closed the door softly. He pictured her as he walked down the stairs, lying naked on his bed, wondering what had just happened between them. Or, maybe he was projecting.

She was dressed when he returned with food and coffee, soft in her linens. She sat on her stone chair, the warmest one, closest to his hearth. He set the tray down and served her, gentleness covering the splintered glass within him. It had no right, really, to pierce him as it did. He breathed through the ache.

“So…” she said, staring into the bowl of fried potato, shredded salt pork, and wilted veg. 

“Did you have any… plans, for today?” 

He listened to himself like an eavesdropping stranger, horrified. Oh no, this was awkward. No, no it couldn’t be awkward between them. She sighed into her breakfast.

“Come with me to my estate,” he said, stabbing the withering mood right in its shriveled grey heart. “We’ll raid Bartrand’s cellar, and you can pillage the Tethras family library.”

She looked at him, tilting her head. “Isn’t it your cellar now?”

He waved the question off. “In name only. I watched my mother drink herself to death in that house while my brother chased skirts and coin.” Her lips parted in dismay. He shrugged. “It was a long time ago.” Not that long, liar. “I’d sell it in a heartbeat, but the deed is all tied up in Guild shit and I don’t have the time or the inclination to deal with it. I’m happy to loot it and leave it to rot, if you’ll come with me.”

She nodded, sipping her coffee and studying him closely. He lifted his in salute and sipped as well, letting the bracing bitterness spread on his tongue. They would walk through Kirkwall together, and he would have to be careful not to touch her, careful to keep his fingers from her waist, keep his eyes from her lips. He couldn’t reach for her in public as he reached for her even now, his hand crossing the lines he’d unwittingly drawn to brush the stubborn tendril of hair from her temple, to hook it behind her ear. She leaned into his touch. He brushed her cheek with his callused thumb, and took it away. She watched him go, a rueful curl at the left side of her mouth.

“What are we doing, Varric?” 

“Having breakfast?” Deflection, humor, the tools of the weak. He hated the words even as they left him.

“I mean, this,” she gestured to her, his room, their various states of undress. “You asked last night, now it’s my turn. What do you want?”

“Shit, Hawke…” truth-or-not-truth. “I missed you, these last few months.” Truth. “Then your mother dropped in yesterday and,” he ran a hand through his hair, “well, I haven’t been doing much better than she said you were.” So far, so good. “And I got a letter from your sister, just after she left.” Lie. White lie. “She said your mother was worried about you, and she reminded me that you’d said you wanted three things with the money.” Mixed. Baby steps.

“The dog,” Hawke smiled. “Beth told you I wanted a dog. Maker’s breath, I didn’t think she was listening when I said that.”

Varric nodded. “I figured Anders would be my best contact with the Fereldans, so I went straight to his clinic.” Lie of omission. Seemed he still couldn’t talk about her, not even to Hawke. _Especially_ not to Hawke. “And then I went to you, and you opened that door…” 

“And I looked an absolute horror.” He opened his mouth to disagree, but she stopped him. “I have a full length mirror in my chambers, Varric. Mother picked it out herself. I looked like shit.”

He shrugged. “You looked rough. Which made me very, very glad I’d come to see you.” Back on truth.

“And we saw the dogs, and we had a drink, and we committed minor vandalism and kissed in a stalled skywheel,” she recited, peering into his eyes, “I know what happened yesterday; I was there. You’re avoiding the question.”

Truth. Not truth. He looked away. “I didn’t want to be alone either. I haven’t been sleeping all that well, since…” Ah. Somewhere in between.

“Yeah.” He looked back. She was studying her hands. “It was so easy to get used to you being there. I forgot…” her eyes flicked to Bianca. “No, I never really forgot. About her. But I tried to tell myself it was just, survival. Just while we were trying to get home.” She exhaled. “We may have left the Deep Roads, but we haven’t survived them yet, have we.”

He stretched his fingers, looking at the creases, the calluses, the new pale lines won from their time below. He looked at her, bent with a hidden weight, marked with new scars. He thought about his conversation with Bianca, the distance, the chill. He’d been in plenty of scrapes before, Carta assassins sent by Bianca’s family, double agents who didn’t take kindly to being exposed. He’d watched people die, the frozen bodies in Darktown’s winters, who knew how many at his hands, the slow, wretched fading of his own mother. He’d walked beside death all his life, but their journey through the deep was the first time it had ever come so hard for _him._

“No. I don’t think we have.”

“So, that’s what it is,” she said with an air of finality. She looked at him. “Just getting through the days? Until we stop jumping at shadows every night?”

He sniffed. He didn’t know. Everything was still so raw, so grey. Once, he had followed his heart. To the brink of clan war, to the cuckoo’s bed, to the depths of Thedas and back. Now, he doubted. The way she looked at him last night, he felt like he could fly. 

Ha. What did dwarves know about flying? He knew burning, he knew crushing, he knew the ache of distance and the snap of proximity, but flying? He didn’t know a goddamned thing about that, and he damn sure didn’t trust it.

“Yeah.” He avoided her gaze and settled on Bianca. “Just, getting through the days.”

Hawke pushed the half-eaten plate of food away and stood. Varric picked at his potatoes, flicking bits of onion from one side to the other as he watched her pull her leathers on in his peripheral. She didn’t look at him once while she laced her stays and buckled her belts. He sighed and stared through the door, consumed by the growing list of all the things he could have said that weren’t _that._ He jumped out of his skin when she appeared at his side, holding his duster.

“Not going to Hightown without this, are you?” she asked.

“Andraste’s floral bloomers, Hawke! I’m an old man with a delicate constitution; you can’t sneak up on me like that.”

She smiled. It didn’t quite reach her eyes. He stood to get dressed himself, the duster, the harness, the crossbow. They left for the Tethras estate. He had no trouble keeping his hands to himself.

…

A gauntlet banged against his door, and the boy entered with a covered dish and a tankard of dark ale. He laid his burden down and swept the cover off with a youthful flourish. He grinned at Varric over the roast mutton and mash, and Varric couldn’t help but grin in return.

“Hey, Nipper,” he said. “They let you out of this dusty old place today?”

The boy nodded. “Messere Seeker allowed me to accompany her to,” he looked around and lowered his voice, “your old house!” 

Varric swallowed the surprise down with practiced ease. “She let you come with her to the Hanged Man?” He leaned down, playing along with the kid’s conspiratorial tone. “She didn’t get you an ale, did she?”

The boy giggled. “No, Messere Tethras! I did get my own bowl of pretzels, though.” Varric chuckled, imagining the poor kid about breaking a tooth on those awful things. “She was upset with you. Why?”

Varric shrugged as he leaned back. “Got me. All the relevant paperwork was still in the files, should have been plain as the nose on your face.”

“She didn’t think so.” The boy rubbed his nose. Yep, still there. Damn, he liked this kid. “She said, ‘That dwarf has a lot to answer for’ in her serious voice.” He cocked his head, so like Mace that Varric had to bite his cheek to keep from laughing out loud. “Why’s she so mad at you, messere?”

“She thinks I have something she wants, and she thinks I’m keeping it to be selfish.”

The boy stared at him. “She’s wrong, messere. You’re the least selfish grownup I ever met.”

Dampness pricked his eyes. He blinked it away with a chuckle and rummaged through his things, taking out the vellum she’d left for him. 

“Don’t let her hear you say that, Nipper.” He handed him the parchment, which he’d folded and sewn into a thin booklet. Ten illustrated pages of his encounter with Flemeth. Signed. Worth a hundred sovereigns easy to the right buyer. Best of all, a big old fuck you to the Seeker’s little game. “Here. A story about a dragon.” The boy’s eyes lit up as he leafed through the pages. “The best part is, it’s all true.”

The boy shoved it into his loose shirt, smoothing the pages around his side. He took the plate’s cover and bowed. Varric returned the bow as best he could from his chair. The kid glanced back at the open door, then looked at him with the all the seriousness of his tender age.

“She’s, wrong,” he whispered, and left Varric to his solitary meal. 

The door slammed shut. Varric turned to the congealing meat on his plate. “I know, kid,” he said quietly, “but it’s still damn good to hear it.”

…

Bartrand had acquired a significant collection of books while Varric hadn’t been looking. Big, elegant books bound in dyed leather. The kind of books that would lend gravitas to the most trifling of men. Hawke trailed light fingertips along the carefully arranged spines, a glass of red wine in the other hand and a smile on her face.

“All of them, Varric? Some of these are quite valuable.”

“How big are the shelves in my suite, Hawke?”

She hummed. “Fair point.” She picked up a slim, battered book, its leather peeling and the spine cracked from hard use. It fell open to a drawing of two lady dwarves doing very naughty things with a ball peen hammer. She waved it at him. “Though I can’t say Mother would be pleased with certain volumes.” 

Varric snorted. His younger self was responsible for half the damage to that book. Maybe more.

“Hey now, that’s a Varric Tethras original,” he said, “worth a lot to an avid collector of the renowned author’s miscellany.”

“Mm, and how many of those are there in the world?”

He laughed. “You’d be surprised. I’m just another dwarf walking down the street, but sit me at a table in Hightown square with a quill in my hand and a stack of books nearby? You can sell some people just about anything.”

She sipped her wine and considered the collection, the dense novels, the scholarly works, the encyclopedias bound in their identical leather and gold leaf. Varric eased himself into a low chair, and considered her. The handful of weeks she’d spent moving in Hightown circles had marked her already. It was a subtle difference, the angle of her hips, the careful placement of her fingers around the goblet. He thought about the shift in her speech, the thick burr when she spoke with her countrymen that disappeared at the Hanged Man, the hard edges when she addressed anyone in templar plate, the warmth when she turned to him. Ah, shit. She’d turned to him.

“I’ll save that one for my personal collection, then. Never know when I’ll need to make a quick sovereign or two.”

He put a hand over his chest. “Sovereign! Two! That drawing alone is worth at least five, and it’s not even the best in there.” 

He held his hand out for the book. She gave it to him, lips parted in a grin. He flipped through as she eased herself into the chair next to him, the worn binding cracking as he leafed to his masterwork. He handed it back. He'd drawn over a chapter break, a matched pair. One was heat and flame, sinuous lines that split and returned, a symmetric negative spread in welcome. The other was victorious stone worn smooth by flowing water, leafless vines twining up a thick column, moss on the twin boulders below. Hawke snorted as she studied them, flicked her eyes up at his, and loosed a peal of laughter when he grinned and nodded.

She pointed to the fire. “That’s a cunt.” She shook her head and tapped the stone. “And that’s a cock.” Varric shrugged. She huffed, amused. “Do I even want to know how old you were when you defaced this lovely volume of…” she studied the writing, “ancient dwarven poetry?”

“Old enough to know, but not old enough to know better,” he said with a grin.

She studied them, tracing the lines of the column with her finger. A thrill ran down his spine to see her interest in the years-old drawing he’d modeled on himself. He wondered if she saw the resemblance. She dragged her eyes from the book to steal a glance at him, the straps at his thighs, the soft swell between. Ah, she saw it. She snapped the book closed and slid it into her satchel. 

“Lewd as they are, you do have a way with line work. Just a bit more obscure, and either one could pass for a noble’s crest.”

He chuckled. “That was the idea. I always thought I’d have a plaque commissioned to hang on my door at the tavern, but I’m scared of what Edwina would do to me when she saw it.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Which one?”

“The fire.” She nodded, keen, and he found himself suddenly apprehensive. “Hawke, whatever schemes you’re cracking—”

She blinked, innocence blooming on her face. “Scheming? Me? Perish the thought, friend.”

“Uh huh,” he said, not at all comforted.

She finished her wine in one long draught and stood. He did as well, shifting with the mood. She went to the nearest bookshelf and crossed her arms.

“I’ll take them.” She looked at him. “Thank you, Varric.”

He tilted his head to her. “My pleasure, Hawke.”

“Now about those barrels of dragon’s blood…”

“I’ll part with the ale, on one condition.” She tilted her head. “You have that fancy dinner party and I’ll have it delivered. Whatever’s left is yours to drink as you like.”

She stuck out her hand. He gripped it in his, their palms warm and rough against each other. They shook, and neither wanted to be the first to let go. He shifted his hold on her to bring her knuckles to his lips. She trembled as he pressed them to her skin, warm and soft. He kissed a bit higher, the back of her hand. She turned it over and he kissed the inside her wrist, drew her closer to kiss the thin skin in the nook of her elbow. 

He tugged her arm behind him and she bent down, her arm wrapped around his shoulder. He kissed her, tried to steal every bit of sweetness from those lips. She slid her fingers down, below his duster, running over the red silk of his tunic, stoking the flame higher. She drew her hands back up to lean into his broad shoulders and kneel before him, below him, pressed full against him. His hips rolled on her, his flesh indented with the memory of her weight. She gasped and gripped him tighter. His mind gave over to sense and wanting, reduced to touch and scent and heat as both room and future fell away. There was only her, only now, and it was enough.

She flicked the sash from his waist, sleight of hand even the best diamondback player would envy. He unclasped her buckles one-handed, the other buried in her hair. Her fingers slipped beneath his tunic to dig into his lower back and he trembled against her as fresh strength flooded through him. She stood and he backed her up against the low table, easing her down onto the cold surface. She hooked those long legs around his hips and drew him full against her with a hungry smile.

“You’re in danger, Varric Tethras,” she murmured.

He ran a hand down her side, relishing the hard lines of her armor and the taut muscle below. His other hand pulled her down to whisper in her ear. 

“Danger is my middle name.”

She chuckled. “Varric Danger Tethras. Has a ring to it.”

He nipped her earlobe. She threaded fingers through his hair and tugged him back. He left reluctantly, leaving a trail of nibbles along her jaw as he went. 

“Why am I in danger, Hawke?” he asked, rubbing slow circles on her thighs with his palms.

She smiled, pressing her fingertips into his scalp. He closed his eyes, his lips parting slightly, his palms pressing deeper into her. Maker’s breath, she knew how to touch a man.

“You’re in danger of forgetting. I see it in your eyes, every time you reach for me.” He met her eyes, his brow furrowed. She stilled her fingers. “Do you want to? Forget?”

He exhaled slowly. She watched him worry the question like a vulture at a corpse. There were so many ways to forget. For some the answer was please, and for others, it was never. She stiffened before he could respond, every fiber of her suddenly on edge. They moved apart as a servant entered the library. He looked quite as surprised to see them as they were to be seen.

“Messere Tethras, lady.” He nodded his dark, loosely braided hair to them. “I wasn’t informed of your presence at the estate.”

Varric leaned on the table, hackles raised at the chilly formality of the greeting, the insinuation that he should have announced himself at his own property. His features arranged themselves into a haughty set, the sort Bartrand had used to keep his people in line.

“Coren,” he said, aloof. “Lady Hawke will be taking the library collection off your hands. You know Bodahn Feddic?” The servant inclined his head at the precise angle that said, _obviously I know him. I know everyone worth knowing._ The coldness in Varric’s eyes hardened. “He is newly employed as the Hawke’s steward. Coordinate with him for their transfer at your earliest convenience.” 

Coren bowed, precise. “At once, messere.” 

His tone was cool, a near neighbor to outright insolence. Varric clenched his teeth as he watched him leave. Hawke laid a hand on his shoulder. He rubbed his jaw, willing the muscles to relax.

“Are all the Tethras servants so charming?” she asked with a knowing grin.

“They’ve been badly used lately,” he said. “For a while it was a mark of pride for a surfacer to work for House Tethras, but now that Bartrand’s disappeared, there’s no one left to care for the family name in the proper kalna manner.” He sighed. “Just another reason to sell off what’s valuable and throw sheets over the rest. The sooner I move on, the sooner they can, too.”

Hawke tilted her head. “The proper what manner?”

Varric grunted. “Kalna. The surface dwarva who still put stock in house names and family honor and caste.” He spit the last word like a bitter seed. “Bartrand only cared about the game, but he played it well. I never wanted to play at all, and now that we have the funds from our expedition rolling in, I’ll never need to.”

Hawke nodded. “He said something about that when he locked us in. The kalna clans bending over and begging for it.”

Varric sucked his teeth. “My brother certainly had a way with words. Lucky for me, gold speaks loudest in the Merchant Guild.”

Hawke started buckling her armor. Varric felt a twinge of regret to see the straps tighten on her, but picked up his sash and dressed as well. 

“Where to now, Hawke?” he asked as he clipped Bianca into place.

She bit the inside of her cheek, pulling her bottom lip into a sideways pout. “It’s a short walk to mother's estate,” she said at last, “and I didn’t think to show you around properly yesterday.”

“Lead on,” he replied, amused by her sudden diffidence.

He felt Coren’s hostile gaze on them as they left, and made a note to find a new post for him first. He had cousins in Wycome who owed him a favor or two, perhaps it was time to collect. They closed the heavy doors behind them and he turned his face to the sun, letting its warmth melt the old, bad feelings away. Hawke bumped him with her hip, and he followed her through the bustling midday crowds to her new home.

No one greeted them at the door. Bodahn had left a note on her heavy writing desk. He and Sandal had gone to the Guild square for the afternoon, and the dowager lady was out on her errands. A pleasant shiver thrilled down his back to settle in his groin as they padded through the huge, sunlit rooms. They had the place to themselves. 

Hawke turned to him with a nervous shrug. “Want to see the library? You can show me where to keep the naughty ones.”

He stepped back. “Lead the way, beautiful.” 

The shelves were dusty, empty save for a small collection of fables and a stack of well-loved lady’s quarterlies. A chaise, new but for the hollow of crushed fabric right at hip height, had been pulled to rest at the balcony overlooking the foyer. He conjured a sleepless Hawke there, leafing through a quarterly by candlelight, nightmares haunting the shadows. She saw him looking and nudged him on.

Leandra’s room was golden in the late afternoon sunlight, greened by hanging baskets of ivy and flowering clematis. The postered bed was massive, rich mahogany wood and pale violet silks rising up nearly to his chest. His stomach sank to see it, beautiful though it was.

She crossed, past her room to the stairs leading to the guest wing, still a work in progress. The beds were less grand here, plainer wood, cheaper linens. He studied the clawed toes that supported them, the carved finials level with his eyes. He grunted. Human and their relentless desire to sleep in the clouds. The windows were open to a huge lilac tree, which perfumed the rooms with its sweet, heady scent. It nearly hid the iron stink of old blood.

From there they climbed the final flight of stairs to the servants’ wing, where the rooms were small, their finishes shabby. None were occupied, as Bodahn and Sandal had moved into the ground floor suite nearest the kitchen like good dwarves. He opened the door to one, dark and empty but for the small stone hearth and a tall, narrow window that faced east. A chill ran through him, and he stepped out quickly.

The front door opened with a muted clatter and Leandra’s musical voice uttering a decidedly unmusical curse. Varric’s chest tightened, nerves alight at the prospect of being discovered. Hawke turned to him with a grin.

“I’ve invited you to supper. Shame the runner didn’t make it to Mother in time, isn’t it?”

He coughed. “That’s what you get for using a courier outfit. You know, my services are available—”

She breached his personal space, those long legs right up against his hips, her breasts inches from his nose. She laid her hands on his shoulders and leaned down to look directly into his soul. He held his breath.

“Don’t tempt me with your inconstant services, serah. My needs require a steady hand.”

He swallowed, felt his throat bob with it as she surrounded him, crackling the air. “There’s none steadier in all of Thedas, beautiful. But, even the best can falter when the details are hazy.”

She parted her lips, but whatever she would say was cut off by the Feddics’ return. Bodahn’s cheerful greeting and Leandra’s quiet reply snapped the moment like a lute string, and Hawke turned to join her little family in the main hall. He followed a pace behind, wondering what she’d meant, and what he’d offered.

“Mother!” Hawke said as she came down the stairs, her shoulders held at a rakish angle Leandra frowned to see. “Did you get my message?”

Leandra looked from her daughter to the dwarf at her heels, and her severe gaze softened. She inclined her head to him, and he returned the greeting with a slight downward tip of his chin. She refocused her attention to her daughter.

“I received no message, Hawke, not yesterday evening, and not today. If it weren’t for Messere Tethras’s messenger this morning relaying your whereabouts, I’d have gone to Aveline to report you missing.” She removed her silk gloves to clasp them before her. “Honestly. I thought I’d taught you better than that.”

Hawke stretched her lips in an apologetic grimace. “Sorry, Mother. I’m here now, though! And I’ve brought a guest home for supper.” She nodded to Varric, who made a small bow when Leandra aimed her amused gaze at him.

“M’lady Hawke, I’m honored. However, if my unannounced presence will put strain on your household, I'll gladly withdraw until a happier time.”

Leandra flicked her fingers, dismissing his offer to leave. “I wouldn’t dream of sending you away, messere.” She raised a wry eyebrow. “After everything you’ve done for us, you’re practically family.” Hawke coughed, turning away as they looked at her, concerned and entertained in turn. She lowered her voice as he stepped from the final stair. “You are always welcome at my table, Varric, humble though it may be tonight.”

Bodahn fetched wine from the cellar and Leandra led them to the solar, pleasantly warm and vivid with herbs and flowers. They had no stone furniture of course, but there was a soft leather hassock near a pot that overflowed with blue starflower. It would suit him well enough. He saw Hawke’s concern as he eased onto it, and gave her a reassuring half grin when he’d settled. She sipped her wine, and he could see the gears whirring behind her eyes.

Leandra turned to her daughter. “I trust you passed a pleasant Summerday yesterday?”

Hawke took her time swallowing. “Yes, Mother, and I heard I have you to thank for it.” Leandra’s lips twitched in a restrained smile. “Why did we never go to a carnival? Varric took me last night and it was…” she gazed out the window, trying to find the right word. 

Leandra swirled her wine. “Ah, the carnival. I remember the Summerday carnivals here when I was a little girl. The fairy lights, the wheelie-gigs.” She smiled, wistful. “My favorite was always the skywheel. You should have seen it. Taller than this house it was, shining silver in the sunset. It was magical to see the ground drop away.”

Varric’s fingers tightened on his goblet. Hawke stole a glance at him, red creeping up around her collar. He looked at Leandra, blessedly lost in her past.

“This skywheel wasn’t quite so grand,” he said. “I’d say it reached just to your guest chamber windows, and several of the cabin pivots had developed a squeal. You’re right about the magic, though. There’s nothing like distance to make your cares seem small.”

Leandra focused on him, surprised. “You went up?”

Varric shrugged. “I was born and raised here in Kirkwall, less than a hundred steps from your front door.” Not that he’d counted. “I’ve done plenty that my Stone-struck relatives wouldn’t dare.”

Hawke choked on her wine. Varric and Leandra both looked at her, one suddenly embarrassed and the other gently concerned. She flapped her hand at them without grace, cheeks red and eyes squeezed shut. Bodahn came to take them to the table before she could recover, and Varric slid from his seat to offer his arm. Leandra preceded them to the dining room at a considered distance, giving them a small privacy. Varric watched her go, impressed by the tenacity of her salon training.

“Are you trying to kill me, Varric?” Hawke hissed between her teeth. “Done plenty, you ass!”

He snorted, amused. “Hand over my heart, It didn’t occur to me until you tried to drown yourself in that goblet. You’re lucky your mother doesn’t know about my ears.”

“Oh, they’re still red.”

“Yes, Hawke, I know.”

The dinner was plain but filling, and unburnt as his meals at the Hanged Man tended to be. The serving girls cleared the plates of mutton and buttered peas to replace them with a small dessert of fresh berries and cream, and a glass of port for each. Leandra produced a deck of cards and began shuffling with a practiced hand. 

“What do you play, Varric?” she asked, a sly twinkle in her eye.

“Easier to answer what I don’t, m’lady. I never could get the trick to demon’s grasp.”

She laughed. “That will be because there aren’t any tricks. Dumb luck, that one. No skill at all.” She glanced at Hawke. “Wicked Grace?”

Hawke groaned and let her head fall to the table with a dramatic thunk. Varric cocked an eyebrow at Leandra. 

“Wicked Grace is your game, Mother. Can I just give you the five sovereigns in my pocket and sit this one out?”

Varric kicked her under the table. She raised her head to shoot him a glare full of daggers. He rolled his eyes toward her mother, smiling. 

“Uff. Fine, deal me in.”

Leandra Hawke proved a shocking hand at Wicked Grace. Hawke regularly trounced Fenris and Anders and gave Isabela a run for slickest cheat, but Varric read the table as he counted cards both legal and otherwise, and he threw the games on purpose as many times as he won.

He couldn’t get a read on Leandra to save his life. Or his coin. They’d started low, copper pots to ease into it, but soon he was betting silver and as the pot grew he fingered his gold. Leandra took his coin almost every time, producing winning hands that weren’t possible, bluffing him into folding when he was up. He was in love.

She looked at her daughter, who was watching a silver coin spin on the table with deep interest. “S— Hawke. That lovely young man came to call again while you were out. The boy from Starkhaven?”

Hawke grunted. “You can call me by my name, Mother. Varric knows.” Leandra’s brows rose as she looked at Varric. He nodded with a shrug. “And that Prince whatsisname?” She groaned. “Andraste’s flaming knickers, he’s half married to the Chantry and his family was just murdered. He wants me for my _blades,_ not my delicate hand in holy matrimony.”

Leandra pulled a card, frowned at it, then tucked it into her hand and discarded a different one. Maybe. Maybe it was the same one, or, she’d only pretended to discard? Varric’s head spun at the mention of a suitor.

“A prince, Saoirse!” Leandra said. “The last Vael in all of Starkhaven. You could be royalty if you played your delicate hand well enough.”

Hawke leaned back and spread her hands on the table, regarding them. Varric looked, too. They were large hands, hard from use, scarred in battle. He traced the pale marks, the nick from the ogre’s blade, a thin line where she’d deflected the force of a wraith’s killing blow meant for him. Leandra glanced up to watch them, and when Varric met her eyes, he saw her catch a small breath. Something, some darkened, secret thing had given him away. He looked at his cards, heat creeping up to his ears as he focused on the knight of dawn and its near partner, the song of temerity. They were strong on their own, but next to the pair of serpents his hand was garbage at best. He set them down.

“I fold. Hawke?”

Hawke looked up from her hands. “Same. Congratulations, Mother. You’ve cleaned out my spending money once again.”

Leandra swept the pot into her winnings with a practiced, proper hand. She stood then, studying them like a disappointed schoolteacher and weighing her next words carefully.

“Varric, it has been a pleasure. I believe I speak for both of us when I say that our home is yours, whenever you would call.” She raised that eyebrow again, the one that might name what he’d rather not. She turned to Hawke. “Let Bodahn know that I am retiring to my chambers. He can release the girls when they’ve washed up.” Hawke lifted a brow at her, but she simply smiled that salon perfect smile that gave nothing away, and left them.

Hawke finished her ruby port in a single swallow and looked at Varric. “Maferath’s balls, she took you for a ride.” She grinned. “I have never seen you so flustered at cards, and I’d part with all my pocket money to see that again.”

Varric laughed. “I’d part with it to learn her tricks! She’s slippery as an eel, and twice as crafty.” 

He sipped his port, savoring its sweet burn. He met her eyes and saw that they were worried. He finished his glass. She stood, nervous as a new filly, and he slipped from the chair to go to her. He held out his hand with a bow. 

“Would you walk me to the door, m’lady?” he asked.

She fidgeted. “Well, I would, but there’s one room left on grand tour. Feels like bad luck to leave it off.”

His heart skipped a beat. They’d covered every chamber in the estate, save one. She turned to lead him up the stairs, and his hand dropped untaken. She didn’t look back, not as they climbed the wide staircase with its polished oak banister, not as they crossed over a new cream rug, the Amell crest picked out in red yarn. She didn’t look back as she opened the door and he followed her through, nor did she look when she closed it.

He looked, though. He found the mirror she’d mentioned, inlaid in a tall wardrobe. A sturdy chest rested by the door, its dwarven locks the best money that could buy. He wondered what she kept there, what needed so many sovereigns of protection. A writing desk sat opposite the wardrobe, neat with a closed journal, a white quill, a small pot of ink. Good ink, if the pot was any indication, the same he used for contracts and final editions. 

When he could stand it no longer, he confronted the bear in the room. Her bed was huge, four posters of solid ebony that reached nearly to the ceiling, red silk embroidered with gold draped over them to form a lush canopy. The mattress was large enough for a party, large enough for someone to get lost in. He walked to it, ran his fingers over the soft crimson velvet, the elaborate gold needlework at the edge. 

“Hawke?” he asked, his throat thick, “I believe someone has stolen half your bed.”

She laughed. “Mother didn’t understand when I chose this one,” she said, crossing to him. “But I grew up sleeping on little more than sacks of moss and straw on the floor. I tried the human beds, I did. This is the only one that felt right.”

She sank down onto the low mattress and he sat beside her, his feet resting comfortably on solid ground. He smoothed his hand over the coverlet, tallying the incredible sum they’d spent on the fabric alone.

“Well,” he said quietly.

“Well,” she replied.

“I guess I’ll… be going?” He looked at her for confirmation.

She swallowed. “Do you have to?”

He watched the flush creep from her collar. Her fingers twitched and he reached to them, second nature to offer the comfort she wouldn’t ask for. She twined their fingers together and curled them into the heat of her lap.

“I’m sure Corff can handle things for a night,” he said.

She sighed, letting her shoulders drop as she leaned to rest her head on his shoulder. He disentangled his hand to wrap his arm around her back, drawing her closer. She fit into his curves and curled around his bones like she’d been made to go there, like his hands over hers at the inn, like the press of her chest on his back in the deep. He rubbed his jaw over her dark hair, stirring the scent of lilac and sweet bay. Lilac. That was new. Maybe Hightown had changed her more than she let on. He closed his eyes as he breathed her in. He hummed softly, a nameless, wordless lullaby as his mind emptied, as a thought rose silver and bubbling, unbidden from the depths— 

_I could do this for the rest of my life._

Her head dipped and he cleared his throat, leaning away as she flinched back to wakefulness.

“Lost you for a minute there,” he said.

She grunted and stood to remove her leathers. He did as well, not turning to her until he laid his trousers over her trunk. She’d sat on the bed to pull her own trousers away, but stopped halfway through. He knelt at her feet to ease them down, their leather darker and stiffer than his, made to turn blades in close fighting where his were merely fashionable, the layers of his duster better armor than most would ever guess. 

He rose to put them away, but she caught his elbow. He turned to her and measured the dark smudges below her eyes, the downward curve of her lips. He tossed them flat on the foot of the bed and scooped her up, one arm at her back and the other supporting her thighs. She sucked in a breath and clung to him, surprised at his boldness, his easy strength. He chuckled low in his chest and walked to the head of her bed, waiting as she pulled the covers back and settling her down like something precious and fragile. She was, just then. He kissed her forehead and smoothed her mussed hair. 

He pulled the tie from his hair to let it fall as he walked round to the other side, laying it on her desk near the inkpot, and slipped into bed beside her. She rolled some tension at her shoulder and he was there, clever fingers finding the knot and teasing it out. She sighed at the release and rolled over to face him. He wrinkled his nose at her.

“So. A Starkhaven prince?”

She played with his hair. “He wants a mercenary, no matter how starry-eyed Mother is over him.” She arched an eyebrow. “Can you imagine me as a princess consort? Ruling a place as dire and Chantry-bound as _Starkhaven?_ Maker, I’d be run out of town so fast it’d make Andraste’s golden head spin. Besides,” she tugged on a tendril she’d wrapped around her finger, “someone else has caught my eye.”

Varric’s mouth went dry. That couldn't be right. Leandra had said Hawke was housebound. She'd come all the way to Lowtown to... he was being too quiet. Hawke was watching him, talons out, waiting.

“Oh? You move fast.” She tugged a bit sharper. He covered her hand with his own, loosing his hair from her grip. “What’s this mysterious suitor like?” He was going to find this bastard and make him wish he'd never set eyes on her.

She regarded him. “He’s handsome, though perhaps not in a traditional Hightown manner. Mother doesn’t approve, of course. She has her hopes pinned on that tragic white knight.”

He grunted. “Mothers.” Words failed him. Words never failed him.

She frowned at him. “She’d see what I do, if she gave him a chance. He’s noble in all the best ways, kind when no one’s looking, generous to the unglamorous needy. I think,” she smiled, small and private, “I think he might be the very best man I’ve ever met, aside from my own father.”

She shone as she spoke of him, as her glowing praise seared through his chest. He swallowed the rising bile back down and cleared his throat so the words wouldn’t shatter there.

“He sounds a peach,” he said. “What's his take?”

She turned sad by degrees. “It’s complicated. He’s been... compromised, by some betrayal he won’t talk about. He hides it well, but I’ve seen this, deep, quiet sadness slip through when he thinks I’m not watching.” She sighed. “He’s as much a mess as I am, but we’re both too proud and stupid to show it.”

He clenched his jaw. Leandra had said Hawke had seen no one in weeks. An unwelcome thought came to him, that Leandra had lied, that she’d used his concern for her daughter to keep this new suitor at bay. He remembered the way she’d looked at him as he trailed Hawke down the stairs. He dissected their time in the solar, the inflection of her voice as she told him he’d always be welcome at her table. _He_ would, the newly minted deshyr, the merchant prince soaked in blood. A potent attack dog for a dowager lady intent on keeping the last scion of her house on the straight and narrow. Maker, damn him for a fool.

“Huh. You do love a good mess,” he said, failing to keep the bitter edge from his voice. She frowned. “And, how long have you known him?” He was grilling her. Shit. Keep it together, Tethras.

She rolled over to confess to the ceiling. “Sometimes it feels like I’ve known him my whole life.” She closed her eyes. “And sometimes like I never knew him at all.”

She rolled again, putting her back to him. He laid on his side, winded from the sullen ache that had settled below his ribs and stuck a dagger into each breath. 

“Hawke…”

“Varric?”

“Am I… should I stay?”

Her shoulder lifted in a shrug. “I’ll sleep better if you do, but if you need to go, then go.”

He thought about leaving. He thought about the walk back to Lowtown, the noise and stink of the Hanged Man. He thought about the cold iron bands that would crush his chest and wake him in the night, the cold, flat void of empty sheets beside him when they did. He didn’t want to stay. He didn’t need to go. 

He rolled away. Bitter breath filled his lungs, the wrongness of sharing her bed so coldly twisting within him. She shifted to press her back against his. He stiffened, fighting the base nature of his flesh to melt against hers. It was a losing battle. He exhaled and pressed back, and the knots in his gut loosened. Shit. 

He scowled at the wall. Whoever Hawke’s suitor was, he’d find him. There wasn’t a single noble family in Kirkwall that didn’t have a pile of skeletons in their fancy closets. Even if her suitor had no dirty secrets of his own, his family would have several. Varric closed his eyes resolving to find one, and when he found it, to relay it to Hawke in his most casual, most concerned for her wellbeing manner. 

He could see it now. He’d sit at the head of his table, Hawke in her chair by the fire, his brow creased in concern, the fatal knowledge on his tongue. Hawke would swoon and he would be there to catch her, to soothe the pain of being taken in by a dirty, low down, two-faced swindler. He would pour her a drink and they would link arms and down them together, and he would pour more until they were loose with it, painless and sloppy. He would stumble to his bed with her leaning on his shoulders and collapse onto his mattress in a tangle of limbs. He would kiss her. He would tell her the truth. She would be silent, a beautiful understanding dawning in those green eyes, and she would whisper his name like a prayer. He would kiss her again and they would make love, slow and fully present as the alcohol burned off in the heat of their joining. When she came it would be his name on her lips, his name cried out in the blinding release he’d pull from her. 

He curled on himself, lost in his fantasy. Hawke stirred and, misreading his predicament, moved to cup him in the hollow of her body. He froze as her arm slipped below his to trail on his chest, as her breath puffed on the back of his neck. He throbbed at her touch. He forced his shoulders to relax and stretched slowly, pulling a heavy thigh up to cover himself. She settled closer, threading her fingers through the deep golden hair. He forced his mind to go blank, and willed sleep to claim him. 

Surprisingly, or perhaps not surprisingly at all, it did.


	14. *We'll Keep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief smut at the end. "Are you trying to kill me with anticipation, Varric?" to "Keep it."

Varric poked at the fire. He set one more split log into the grate and sat back to watch the flame lick along the dry, splintered edge like an eager lover. He’d risen before dawn again, that same crushing weight on his chest. The fear that once accompanied it had faded, but it pushed him from the warmth of his bed nearly every night regardless. He stared into the fire and wondered where she was in that very moment. Sleeping, he thought with a huff. Warm and cozy at some Antivan inn, or curled up with Mace in the captain’s quarters of ‘Bela’s ship. 

Hawke had taken to life at sea like she’d been born in a galley. He drew her in his mind’s eye, leaning into the wind, hair flying, expression closed in thought. The image shifted, her green eyes bright in the darkness belowdecks, cajoling him from his seasick misery. He had no power to resist her by then, and, she had the right of it. His sickness was better above with the wind in his hair and the spray on his face, the creak of timber and rope, the crew whistling call and warning like bright, deadly songbirds. Still, he was glad to be off the ship at every opportunity. He longed to walk through those vibrant northern markets again, the whirl of spice and silk, the clangor of merchant hawkers and street musicians, the hiss of oil splashing on a hot pan. 

He pulled the fur around his shoulders against a chill that settled around his very soul. Hawke was safe. Hawke was free. 

“Hawke is safe,” he whispered to the flames, “Hawke is free.”

…

Three weeks passed while he wasn’t watching. He’d slipped from her estate before dawn that first night, and a handful of other nights after. Likewise, Hawke would devise reasons to linger when she visited the Hanged Man, one round too many, a new boot that chafed. Days would go by and they wouldn’t see each other, but there was always an excuse, always a desperate, gasping reason one needed to see the other before long. When they did, an inexorable momentum drove them all but unwilling to the only end they could remember, the end that saw them tangled in crimson sheets, slick and breathless. It was happy, but ever too brief. They didn’t stay.

Varric sat at his table, butter melting on dark toast and black coffee steaming at his left hand. He was staring through a short stack of reports, Coterie actions in Darktown, murmurs of an anti-Qunari movement on the docks, thinking of her. He hadn’t seen her since an impromptu game of cards at her estate several days ago, and he felt antsy, incomplete. It was his move, but the dealer was playing with a stacked deck. 

He was flicking through his repertoire of successful invitations when he heard the Man’s door open, and Corff’s voice as he tried to shoo the newcomer away. Their exchange was too low for Varric’s ears, but a knock at his own door followed. He opened it to a stout, studious dwarf, black hair, blue eyes, late middle age, who smelled of crumbling vellum and Orlesian musk. Varric looked him over, _stingy, learned but hard, been in a scrape or two that turned him bitter, and what’s the deal with those filthy sleeves?_ and invited him in.

“Varric Tethras?” Varric nodded. “Arlath Ivo. A little birdie told me you stumbled on something beyond your ken.”

They sat at his table. Varric shuffled the reports into a file and offered his wooden charger of buttered toast. Arlath accepted a slice, his grimy cuffs dragging everywhere.

“I’ve heard the find is unusual,” Arlath said, keen.

“Unusual isn’t the half of it,” Varric said. “The thaig was so old, it barely looked dwarven. You’ll have to see for yourself, once we have our contracts signed.”

“Yes, the contracts.” Arlath leaned on the table. “I don’t work for less than ten.”

“And yet, here you are,” Varric said with a smile.

“Hm. I’ve heard you’re a reasonable man, Tethras, from a reasonable family.”

“You’re thinking of my brother, Bartrand. He was the reasonable one, a real mind for business. Me, though,” Varric shook his head. “You haven’t heard of me.”

“Oh but I have,” Arlath smiled back, all teeth. “My little birdie told me all about you.”

Varric shrugged. “Birds will sing as they please. I’m offering seven.”

Arlath dropped his pretense of a smile. “One word from me, and you won’t be able to move your product in three kingdoms.”

Varric scoffed and picked up a jeweled letter opener. “I’m sorry, is that a threat?” He twirled it in his fingers. “I don’t believe you actually have heard of House Tethras, serah, if you think us impressed by _threats—_” 

He stabbed the pointy end through the dwarf’s greasy cuff and into the wooden charger. Arlath jumped to his feet and took the plate with him, clattering in the small room. Varric leaned back and watched the scholar wrestle with the letter knife and charger, a mean, hard glee filling him as the smaller dwarf measured the depth of his failure. Arlath ceased his fruitless struggle with a huff.

“Eight.”

“Seven.”

“Seven and a half.”

“Seven.”

“Beards of the ancestors, Tethras, I have a mortgage to pay and wedding debts to settle.” Arlath thumped back to the table and set the charger down gently. “I came to the surface with a head full of history, but all you damn sun-touched care about is how much coin you can get for our heritage on the grey market.” 

He scrubbed his face with his palms, and the charger dragged his cloth sleeve down to reveal a different kind of sleeve, black ink in harsh angles. He’d been cast out of Orzammar, marked for his crimes. Varric cocked his head to read them better. Arlath saw him looking, and pulled the sleeves back.

“Kidnapping a noble daughter, huh? I’m surprised they let you live.”

“They nearly didn’t. And I didn’t _kidnap_ her.” Arlath sniffed. “I _loved_ her. And she said… she _said_ she loved me.”

Varric was quiet as he studied the marks on the other dwarf’s skin, the sharp lines, the runes that labeled him blood traitor and child thief. He wondered exactly what sort of song their little birdie had sung for him. This one sounded a bit too familiar for comfort.

“How old…”

“We were sixteen.” He laughed, bitter. “Stupid age. I worked my way to Shaper assistant only to lose it all. I’d have been the youngest member of the Shaperate in a hundred years if it weren’t for her…” Arlath sighed. “If it weren’t for both of us.”

Varric hummed. “So is this marriage…”

Arlath grunted. “My daughter.” Varric raised his brows. Arlath shrugged. “Orzammar was a long time ago. I had a choice on exile: waste away in the memory of what could have been, or move on with what could be. I wasted for a few years, but I got tired of going to sleep hungry. The kalna houses in Orlais were thrilled to find a former Shaper willing to play along with their games of baseless nobility. I pretend to advise them, and they pretend to respect me. Their coin is real enough, at least.”

Varric placed a hand on the charger and stood. He pulled the letter knife from the splintered wood, and Arlath rubbed his wrist as Varric lowered himself back into his chair. He twirled the blade absently, feeling his guest’s eyes follow it with a dark amusement.

“You need coin,” Varric said, “and I need someone who gives a damn about our history.” The jeweled hilt caught the light and scattered it across the walls. “I’ll give you seven and a half. You’ll work for me, and only me, until that warehouse is empty.”

Arlath nodded. Varric amended the contracts to reflect the new rate and handed them across the table. Arlath read them carefully, and signed at the bottom. Varric signed below Arlath’s elegant script and rolled one copy into a tube. Arlath stood and held out his hand. Varric slipped the knife into a pocket and stood as well. They grasped each other’s wrists. 

“I’ll make some arrangements for a protection detail and show you to the warehouse after lunch. Kirkwall is a bad place to get lost, lots of blind alleys and well-armed opportunists. Don't go out alone.” 

Arlath made to let go. Varric tightened his grip, a dead light gleaming in his eyes. Arlath swallowed, understanding at last what this branch of House Tethras was about. 

“But.” Varric’s voice was soft. “Threaten me again, and I’ll gut you myself.”

Arlath dipped his chin, a tremble in the arm Varric had imprisoned. Varric released him with a nod. The scholar gathered his things and scurried toward the door. Varric called after him.

“This could make you a rich man, Ivo. Rich and renowned if you play your cards right. Our little bird saw the smallest part of it, and that alone was enough to bring you halfway across the continent.”

Arlath grunted and closed the door behind him. Varric rubbed his brow, mentally flicking through his roster of bruisers for one he could assign to a stuffy scholar dumb enough to threaten him. He dashed off a quick note to his Lowtown second, new orders and a boost in pay. He sipped his cold coffee with a grimace, and picked up the reports where he’d left off. 

He’d barely gotten through Hightown (a new gang on the rise, what else was new) when his door slammed open. His heart slammed with it, because only one person entered a room with the same disregard for his personal belongings, and that was— 

“Hawke.”

He looked up from his reports, brows drawn in annoyance even as his breath quickened to see her. She was in fine form, hip cocked and shoulders slouched, lips curved in her wicked grin. He pulled at his trousers and leaned back, easing the sudden pressure there.

“Varric. Don’t you know what day it is?”

He lifted his shoulder in a shrug. It was Thursday, a meeting day for the Merchant Guild according to the very official notification he’d received earlier that week, all but begging for his attendance in the hall. He’d replied with his dues and a cordial invitation to get fucked. The Guild was plenty capable of war profiteering and screwing Orzammar nobles without him. 

“It’s Thursday.”

She groaned, dramatic. “It’s _Mace_ day.”

He leaned forward. Maferath’s balls, it was Mace day. 

“Shit. Okay, let me get my things together. Got a late start.”

She grinned and left him for the bar. He splashed a little water on his face, dressed quickly, and jogged down the stairs to catch her at the door.

They heard the barking well before coming to the Fereldan’s tenement door, barking and the excited chatter of a crowd. Mercs and merchants rubbed shoulders with sweaty longshoremen and servants in fine livery, all jostling around the frazzled woman and her dogs. He and Hawke leaned on a wall across the dusty street, amused by the buzzing energy and not at all inclined to join in. 

“Could have been here first if someone hadn’t lazed about half the morning,” she said with a grin.

He grunted. “Wouldn’t have slept in if someone didn’t keep waking me up at night.”

“I don’t recall you complaining. Unless hah, don’t stop, don’t, _unf,_ please, ah! Fu—” 

He elbowed her thigh. Hard. She’d already drawn unwanted attention with the sounds she was making, and that was just in his pants.

“Unless that’s the way you complain.”

“Hawke, keep that up and I will drag you into an alley and bend you over the first crate I see.”

She laughed, low and throaty. “Promises, promises.”

“How’s the chicken story coming along?” he asked. 

The subject needed changing, or he’d make good on his threat. Not in an alley of course, he wasn’t an animal. But, the Hanged Man was only minutes away, and the days they’d been apart had sharpened his need for her to a fine, fine point.

“Bodahn timed me at fifteen minutes last I told it,” she said, “and he was beet red with laughter by the five minute mark. Bless that man, he is so easily entertained.”

“Well?”

“What, you want to hear it?”

“Of course. How else will I plagiarize your work for my next bestseller?”

“You wouldn’t!”

“I might.”

“Scoundrel.”

“Cheat.”

“Fine.”

She told him the chicken story. Her details were sharper, her characters more defined. He found himself drawn into the workings of her band of idiots even as he stopped and pointed out her inconsistencies. After a while, though, he stopped listening and started thinking. Three weeks had passed and he still didn’t have a name for her suitor. 

For all his delicate inquiries, the man had remained a mystery. Yes, many noblemen came to call, and yes the young royal from Starkhaven called most often, but none were allowed beyond the foyer, and none were received with any warmth. Indeed, the lady Hawke was gaining an unfavorable reputation among the nobles of Hightown. They said she was crass, graceless, nothing but another dog lord with that accent and those daggers tucked in every secret place. Some saw it as a challenge, sport that they might play at winning the feral lady’s hand. Varric had laughed when he heard that. They were far more likely to lose a hand than gain one. 

“Varric?”

He shook himself free of his machinations. “Hm?”

She sighed. “You were leagues away, weren’t you. I asked what you thought.”

He rubbed his brow. “Sorry, you caught me napping. You’ve come a long way, but it still needs work before I can send it to my editor.”

She huffed and pushed off the wall. “Crowd’s thinned out. Come on, let’s get a dog for the dog lord.”

A young man in Hightown livery left clutching the white puppy to his chest as the dog squirmed in his grip. Hawke chuckled and shook her head, but didn’t offer him any advice. The dogs laid on their sides in the sunlight, panting and happy to be outside. 

“Ach, it’s you again,” the woman said. “Hang on, Mace is around here somewhere.”

Mace came bounding around a corner at her name. She’d grown since they’d seen her last, all rangy legs and ruffled fur. Her hackles raised as she sighted Varric, and she charged him just as she had the first time. Hawke stepped in front of him to scoop her up, avoiding the gigantic, flailing paws as she cradled the pup on her back like an infant.

“Mace! No! That is my best friend in the whole world. We don’t treat our best friends like that, do we?” The pup whined and licked her chops. “He’s one of the good ones, girl. You can trust him.” She looked at him. His chest swelled with the naked affection in her eyes. “I do.”

The pup licked at her nose, and she laughed as she set her down on her paws. Mace trotted up to Varric. He tensed, but she dropped to sit before him and lolled her long tongue out in a grin. He held a hand out. She gave it a perfunctory sniff, then pushed her head beneath it to demand a scratch. He obliged.

“Glad to know I pass muster, Mace,” he said. 

Hawke paid the woman, then slipped another sovereign into her pocket when she wasn’t looking. Varric rolled his eyes at her. She shrugged.

“Many thanks, sister,” Hawke said. “Say, we never did catch your name.”

“Name’s Tiff,” she said, “me mum had lofty aspirations, Theophania she called me. Ha! I’d more interest in the dogs than studying Chantry. Had the best kennel in the Southron Hills for years, me and Teach.” She shrugged. “Then we had to leave. Now we’re here.”

Hawke nodded. “Now we’re here. Blight’s done, though. Will you return?”

“Nah. Kirkwall’s good for business. Never sold a litter faster than this. Blight took our dogs, razed the kennel. Place like that en’t home anymore.”

Hawke sighed. “Hear that, sister, hear that. Go on, Tiff and Teach. Go on, Bergie and Snoots. We’ll keep.”

Tiff smiled. “Aye, we’ll keep. Maker go with you.”

Hawke whistled to Mace, and the pup fell in at her heels like she’d done it her whole life. Hawke and Varric strolled through the bazaar, careful to keep a friendly distance between them. Hawke stopped at the weapon smith as usual, testing the new blades against her own. Varric leaned against the table to watch the square. 

“Grace at my place tonight,” he said, casual.

“Mm, who’s coming?”

“Fenris and ‘Bela so far. Couple of the old guard might show. Gallard maybe, or Thrask.”

“Thrask?” Hawke turned to him holding a short, thick blade. “The templar?”

Varric eyed her white-knuckled grip. “You know, I think he’s actually at the Gallows tonight.” He made a note to rescind that invitation.

She flipped the dagger and watched it flash in the sunlight. “Shame. He was alright for a templar.” 

“You just wanted to cheat him out of his hard-earned coin.”

“I want to cheat everyone out of their coin, no matter how they earned it.”

Varric chuckled. Hawke set the dagger back on the weathered table and turned to him. He glanced up in time to see her look away with a sigh. He watched the bazaar, waiting for the next prickle at the back of his neck to tattle on her wandering eyes. Dangerous games they played, all the more so for being out in the open. Mace laid panting in the sun, completely at ease.

“I should get her home,” Hawke said, making no move to do so. “Grace when?”

“Eh, sundown, or sometime shortly after.” 

He edged closer, daring to let the side of his hand graze her hip. She stiffened and Mace jumped to her feet, hackles raised. Varric looked down and brushed his duster, alarm ringing in his head and shaking his fingers. Shit. That mabari was going to make this difficult. Hawke shook herself with a chuckle, and Mace dropped to her haunches, watching him.

“I’ll be there with bells on,” she said.

“Bells, huh?” Varric grinned as his heart hammered in his chest. “How do you make them ring?”

She bent down to whisper in his ear. Her scent surrounded him, lilac and sweet bay, leather and steel. He leaned into her like a vine toward the sun, never close enough, afraid to burn.

“If you’re very, very good tonight, I’ll show you.”

He inhaled her, fighting the overwhelming urge to pull her full against him, to weave his fingers through her hair and claim her lips in front of this dusty merchant’s stall. 

“What if I’m very, very bad?” he whispered, hoarse.

She leaned away, but not before he saw the deep blush creeping up her neck. She patted her thigh. Mace rose and walked to her to lean heavily at her knee, those dark coffee eyes not leaving Varric for a moment.

“Then you can show me,” she said with a grin.

An errant breath escaped him in a shudder. She turned to the stairs leading up to Hightown and he watched her go, watched until the midday crowds swallowed her whole. 

“That woman will be the death of me,” he muttered to himself. 

He crossed the square back to the Hanged Man and returned to his suite to wait for his scholar to return. He bolted a meal that had no flavor, stared through papers that made no sense, and scribbled notes in his journal that consisted entirely of punctuation. When Ivo knocked on his door an hour later, he practically bowled the man over in his haste to do something, anything, to take his mind off Hawke.

…

Varric stared into the fire. The days were getting longer again, and the Seeker’s patience shorter. He’d intended to spin a tale for every year Hawke had lived in Kirkwall, but after hearing his story of the Deep Roads, she’d pulled his papers and demanded to know about the Qunari. As if that was somehow connected to the mage rebellion. Well, that was the reason she’d been made Champion, but the power that came with the position was laughable at best. He and Hawke had certainly laughed, right until the end. 

He sipped the ale the boy had left for him. Nevarran dragon’s blood, slightly skunked. The Seeker had found Hawke’s last cask.

…

“Hawke!”

Varric flinched at the roar from the tavern. He prided himself on being the cool, collected, unflappable center of any gathering, and he glanced around the table to see if anyone had noticed. ‘Bela was palming a card to her tunic, Fenris was brooding into the fire, and Gallard was still rubbing his ear. Good. He watched Hawke make her slow way over, stopping at the bar, chatting with Edwina. He shook his head. Leave it to Hawke to befriend the surliest barmaid in Kirkwall. At last she pulled up a chair, elbowing her way between Gallard and himself. He raised his glass of wine, often touched but never tasted. Drinking and playing cards was how you lose, and Varric didn’t lose unless there was a greater win down the line. She clicked her tankard against his glass.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” he said. 

He let the wine touch his lips briefly as she took a long pull of ale. She set her tankard down and made a face. 

“Ugh. Nope, that first taste is just as unpleasant every time.”

‘Bela flicked her eyes up from her cards. “That’s why you start with the good stuff and work your way back, lovely.” She took a flask from her belt and handed it to Hawke. “Try this on.”

Hawke met her gaze. She bit her lip and twirled her finger around the cork, and drew every eye at the table, willing or no. ‘Bela grinned and leaned closer, pushing her breasts together in a way that was intensely arousing and absolutely on purpose. Fenris glanced from one woman to the other with a look of mild disgust before grunting and returning to the fire. Gallard grinned as the two gave them a show, his appreciation unnoticed by either of them, and Varric… Varric watched. He watched the chipped ridge of the cork press on Hawke’s finger, watched as it came out with a wet, vulgar _pop._ He watched Hawke lift the flask to her lips, the line of her neck as she tipped her head back, the shift and fall of her loose hair, the sweep of her lashes as she closed her eyes. He watched her lips give around the narrow spout, the movement of her throat when she swallowed, the pink of her tongue as it caught an errant drop. 

“Mm,” Hawke’s hum was kissing cousins to a moan. ‘Bela took the flask back, caressing the fingers that held it. “What is that?”

“Spiced Antivan rum,” she said, taking a drink herself before corking it.

“Rum?” Varric grinned. “Isn’t that playing a bit true to type?”

‘Bela flicked an open hand in a gesture, _what else would it be?_ “Ah, pirate?”

“If you’re quite finished,” Broody told the fire, “Varric, raise or call?”

Varric considered his hand. He felt a tickling at his ear and brushed it away. It was replaced with a heavy weight on his shoulder, breath that slipped down his neck. He suppressed a shiver.

“Hawke.”

“Nice hand.”

It was a terrible hand.

“Thank you. They say I got them from my father’s side of the family.”

“Mm.” He could feel her muscles flex as she spoke. “You should raise.”

“You’re not playing this round, Hawke. You were late.”

She sighed. “Mace didn’t want me to go. I had to stay until she was sleeping or I’d never hear the end of it.”

‘Bela snorted. “You had to tuck your dog in before you could leave?”

Hawke poked Varric. “You told!”

Varric shoved her with the shoulder she’d occupied. “You weren’t here to fill the awkward silences. Someone had to.”

Fenris snorted. “You wouldn’t know silence if it slit your throat, dwarf.”

Varric slapped silver coins on the table. “See your two, raise you two.” Fenris was bluffing, ‘Bela was cheating, and Gallard kept rubbing his scar. He liked his odds. He liked the way Hawke settled back onto his shoulder better. He swirled his wine.

“Venhedis,” Fenris mumbled. “I fold.”

Gallard sighed. “Same. Take him out, my pirate queen.”

‘Bela leaned forward and arched a brow at the grizzled elf. Varric plucked a pretzel from a nearby bowl, aimed, and tossed. It hit ‘Bela square on the ear and she jumped, scattering a handful of cards far too numerous to be legal. He tsked at her, paternal disappointment on his face. She grinned at him, unfazed.

“Shame, Rivaini. If you’d been an honest woman, you might have won.” 

He laid his cards on the table, a pair of angels. Her grin dropped to a ‘o’ of outrage. He ducked as the entire bowl of pretzels flew at him. It hit Hawke instead.

“Ow! Maker’s balls, Isabela, watch the innocent bystanders!” Hawke rubbed her reddening cheek.

“Innocent!” ‘Bela scoffed. “You helped him! ‘Nice hand, Varric, you should raise, Varric!’ Andraste’s tits, woman, drag him up to his fancy rooms and ravish him before I drag you both up there and watch.”

Hawke laughed. “Not before I take whatever coin he’s left you. Deal me in.”

They passed the cards to Gallard. He shuffled them with a sure hand, tension and release in perfect balance. Varric grinned to see ‘Bela’s interest spike as the elf’s callused fingers caressed the cards like a practiced lover. 

“So,” he said, breaking the newly taut silence, “Gallard. Did my survival net you any coin?”

Gallard grinned. “It did, though me and a few of the boys had to go have a talk with Eddie. He didn’t want to pay up since no one’s seen your brother, but we’re reasonable people, right? He saw reason too, by the time we’d finished with him.”

Hawke coughed. “I’m sorry, what?”

Varric watched the cards fly. “Four-fingered Eddie’s a Coterie bookie. He gave us fifteen-to-one odds of making it back from the expedition alive, last I heard. And if I recall, Reason is what Gallard here calls his favorite knife.”

“Dagger.”

“Whatever you say.”

‘Bela grinned. “It was twenty to one by the time you slouched back to Kirkwall.” She looked at Gallard, sultry promise in her amber eyes. “I made a bit of coin on that myself, after you and your boys softened him up.”

Hawke groaned. “And no one thought to tell me our numbers were so unfavorable? Maker’s breath, with friends like you, who needs darkspawn?”

Varric spread his hands, taking in the tavern, himself, her. “Hey, it could have been worse.”

‘Bela grinned. “Yeah, you could have died down there and lost us money.”

Hawke shook her head as she gathered her cards. Varric glanced around the table as he swept his new cards into his hand. ‘Bela’s default mask was bored, which considering it was paired with a growing interest in Gallard made for a very amusing war on her features. Gallard was doing his best to not stare at ‘Bela. Hawke was frowning, but she always frowned. Fenris was clearly thinking about murder. No surprise there. He looked at his hand. Shit. Four of a kind, knight of dawn high. It was the best hand he’d had all night. They all tossed a silver on the table.

‘Bela flicked another silver into the pot. “My lucky silver royal to start us off.”

“No such thing,” Hawke scoffed. She finished her ale and waved to Norah for another.

“See for yourself,” ‘Bela said, smug. 

Hawke picked it up. She turned it in her fingers, studying it from every angle. She grunted and put it back.

“Lucky silver royal it is,” she said. “See with a normal silver, and…” she took off a silverite ring set with garnets, “raise this piece of junk I found on some idiot who jumped me on the way here.”

Varric lifted a brow. This was getting interesting. “Well. I see your trinkets, and raise this perpetual bond.”

‘Bela grabbed it. “A bearer bond?” She laughed. “From Rivain! How did you even get this, Varric?”

He shrugged. “It came with the room.”

“Raise ten copper,” Fenris said, sliding the coins into the pot.

“Ooh look out ladies,” Hawke said, “the big spender has arrived.”

Fenris tossed her a good-natured rude gesture. Hawke caught it and pressed it to her chest. Fenris shook his head and smiled a small, secret smile into his cards. Varric shifted uneasily.

Gallard set his cards on the table. “Trinkets, copper, and bonds no one is going to collect on? Pah. There’s nug racing somewhere in Darktown if you fools aren’t betting real coin.”

‘Bela stacked her cards atop his and plucked her royal from the pot. “I love a good race,” she said, sly. “The way their little handy feet go pit-pat on the track? Mm, it’s a_dor_able.”

They left, joined at the hip. Hawke and Varric watched them go. Fenris stood when they were out of sight.

“Same time next week, Varric?”

“I’ll be here,” he said.

“Then I’ll take my leave. Hawke.” 

He nodded to her. She raised her fresh ale to him as he left. Varric tucked the bond back into a pocket and watched Hawke sweep the coins into her hand and slip the ring on her finger. She flexed her hands and watched the gems sparkle in the firelight. 

“What did you take them for tonight, Varric?” she asked.

“Eh, couple sovereigns. I threw some Broody’s way when I could.” 

She leaned on his shoulder again, the scent of her hair mingling with the spilled ale stink of the tavern. He took deep, greedy breaths and tried not to think of his suite only a handful of steps away.

“Think ‘Bela and your elf friend are really going to Darktown?”

He shrugged. She sat up and grabbed her tankard. “Sure. Aveline’s probably saving them a prime spot as we speak.” She snickered into her drink. He asked the question that had been pricking the tip of his tongue since she pulled up her chair. “What about you? Heading back to Hightown?”

She set the tankard down and faced him, eyes dark. “Eventually. I did make a promise earlier.”

She pulled a thick strap of black leather from a pocket. Sewn onto the end was a buckle, and a bell. It tinkled softly, a muted echo of Varric's suddenly jangling nerves. He made the corner of his mouth curl in a grin far more confident than he felt. Hawke arched a brow.

“Which will it be? Good, or bad?” 

Varric stood, his wine forgotten. “Why not a bit of both?”

Hawke slipped the leather back into her pocket and grabbed her tankard. “After you,” she said with a grin.

He took his time, trading jibes with a few regulars before stopping at the bar to settle his tab. Red was sporting a new black eye. Varric asked him about it to fill the pause while Corff counted his change. He shook his head when the kid admitted to another botched job, and told him to look for honest work as a servant or apprentice somewhere. Preferably somewhere that wasn’t Kirkwall. Corff slid the change to him on the bar. Varric picked up the silver, left the copper, and turned to Hawke. 

“Hawke.” She looked up from her conversation with Edwina. “Can I talk to you?” Edwina scowled at him. He smiled pleasantly. “Alone.”

Hawke sighed loudly, her feigned annoyance with his interruption so convincing he nearly hesitated. He gestured to his rooms. She turned to the stairs and he hitched his breath to his stride so neither could run off on him. He was acutely aware of the sway at her hips as she climbed, the swish of her arms at her sides, the lilac in her wake. It seemed like a lifetime passed on those steps, but soon he was closing the door and clicking the deadbolt smoothly into place. Hawke perched on the corner of his table and played with the leather strap, letting it slide around her wrists, the small bell singing its small song. He shrugged out of his duster and hung it carefully on its hook by the door as he measured his resistance by the spoonful.

“Are you trying to kill me with anticipation, Varric?” Hawke asked, husky. 

“Never,” he said, taking the strap from her hands and nudging her knees apart to stand full against her. “There are far better ways to go.”

She smiled, heat in her eyes as her fingers made quick work of his sash and the laces of his trousers. “Torture, then? The parting of flesh? The bruising of skin?”

He let the strap hang from his neck as he pulled the stays at her hips and sides so her leathers fell as she stood. She kissed him from above, hair tickling his ear, lips soft and insistent. He ran his fingers up her back to bunch the fraying linen in his fists.

“To the death,” he murmured, easing her back down, pulling the tunic from her shoulders. 

She did the same for him and tossed the red silk aside to float down to the floor. She grasped his shoulders and pulled him against her, their breath coming fast as they drowned in each other. She broke away with a grin.

“Just the small one,” she said.

He hummed agreement and tugged her up to lead her to bed. They shucked the rest of their clothes to lie together, legs entwined. Varric raised the leather strap with its softly chiming bell.

“You first?”

She offered her wrists. He bound them gently and tied the end off with a quick release within her reach. She tugged and he shivered to see the leather tighten on her skin, shivered to see the blush already spreading on her chest. She lanced him with a fierce gaze, desire and victory in her depths.

“Gonna sit there and look, or are you going to ring my bell, Tethras?”

“Both.”

She laughed, twice. Then she hissed a breath, and she sighed. She gasped and begged, she moaned and whispered and shouted. He drew every sound he could from her as she writhed under him, as she pulled at her bind and swore to the rafters with a list of all the deviant things she’d do to him once she was released. So, he released her. And she did. She bound him with the strap and dropped to tease and flutter. She nipped and scratched and delved as he cursed the leather’s strength, as the bell tinkled softly above him. At last, she took pity and unbound his wrists. He took her then, fierce and wild with his new freedom until they collapsed, spent and glowing. She reached up to untie the leather, and chuckled to see the creases they’d made in it.

“Keep it,” she said, coiling and setting it on the floor beside her.

Varric watched her turn on her elbow, watched her run fingers through her hair. Dread coiled in his belly. She would rise soon, loose and unsteady as she dressed. She would tie her stays and sheathe her daggers, and she would walk out his door to slink home through the shadows. He cursed his inability to enjoy these precious few moments while she remained. She turned back just in time to see his expression grow cold and distant. Her lips parted with a drawn breath, and he watched her light gutter and fade. She turned to leave. He snaked an arm around her waist and pulled her back. She couldn’t leave like that.

“Where you goin’?” he asked, growling into her neck.

She looked back at him, that soft confusion in her eyes, hurt and hope in equal measure. He stroked her belly with his thumb, apologetic.

“Thought that was my cue,” she said.

He gave his head a small shake against the pillow. “Hm-m, you caught me scheming, that’s all.”

“Oh? About what?”

“We had a deal, Hawke. Unless you forgot?”

She hummed. “Right. Your ale for free run of mother’s estate.” She turned to face him. “I’ll have to soften her up first.”

He trailed light fingers along her back. She shivered and slipped her feet under the coverlet, and he breathed easier. She would stay, at least a little while longer.

“Practice telling the chicken story on the balcony,” he said with a grin. “Bet a sovereign she’ll do anything to get you to stop before long.”

Hawke wrinkled her nose at him. “I’m not that cruel. Mother responds better to honey than vinegar. She’s been writing letters to some relations in Wycome, a great-niece? I don’t remember. She mentioned wanting to visit, but worried aloud if we had the coin for such a journey.”

Wycome. “I do.” She arched a brow. “Remember Coren?” She did. “I’m sending him and a few other servants to my cousins in Wycome. The ship leaves next week. Leandra can go with them, first class.”

She smiled. “Your servants aren’t coming back, though. I hope you don’t intend to leave my mother stranded on the other side of the Marches.”

He closed his eyes with a groan. “Uff. Fine. I’ll make arrangements for her return journey, too.” The bed shifted and he cracked an eye to see her hovering above him. “Don’t say I never did anything for you, Hawke.”

“You take such good care of me,” she mused. “It nearly makes up for all the times you’ve tried to get me killed.” 

He rolled to his back and pulled her off balance with a grin. She stopped astride him and slapped his chest lightly. He caught her hand. She let herself be caught.

“You tell your mother. I’ll send the invitations.” He played with her hand, stretching her fingers, turning it over to press his thumb into her palm.

“You don’t trust me to invite my own guests?” She curled her fingers loosely around his.

He chuckled. “Not even a little bit.”

She sighed, dramatic. “Very well. I throw myself at your mercy, serah.”

“You won’t regret it.” 

He pressed a kiss into her palm. She cupped his jaw and leaned down to kiss him soundly. He wove his fingers through her hair and drew her closer, drew every moment he could steal with her out as far as it would go. She broke away.

“I should go…” It was almost a question.

He opened his hands. He didn’t want her to leave. He wouldn’t make her stay. She rolled from his bed and dressed in a way he’d like to call reluctant. She sheathed her daggers and stepped to his door.

“Be safe,” he said stupidly. He bit his tongue.

She gave him a small smile. “Sure thing, boss.”

The door swung shut and he was alone. He curled on his side and buried his nose in the pillow, filling the hole in his chest with the whisper of lilac and sweet bay. He sighed. He’d grown so accustomed to his solitary life, his fine inks and his fine clothes, the murmur of the bar, every rogue, scoundrel, and regular a friend by another name. He’d pieced it together seamlessly over the years, broad where his skin was thickest, cinched and splinted where the old wounds still ached. It had protected him flawlessly, through all the shit thrown his way, never chafing, never pinching. 

Until now. Nothing had fit right after they came back from the Deep Roads. The carefully crafted splints stiffened over nerveless scars, new wounds wept when he wasn’t looking, and the only balm that soothed him… was her. He clutched the pillow to his chest and fell asleep with her scent in his bones.


	15. A Little Night Music

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a dope and posted this from saved draft TODAY 1/22/2020, and apparently caused a snarl in the space-time continuum. So. Sorry about that. The good news is I tend to be a fast learner?

“So I ask, ‘How many have you got, Hawke?’”

Hawke squeezed her eyes shut in silent laughter. Varric bumped her with his shoulder, nearly pushing her from her perch on the arm of his chair. She leaned on Mace to catch herself. The pup leaned back with a huff and looked up with her big eyes as if to say, _keep it together, human, it’s not that funny._ Barely four months old and the mabari was already a critic. Their audience waited, teeth bared in growing smiles, knuckles white on the motley collection of drinking vessels Hawke had scrounged from Maker only knew where.

“‘Seventy-six!’ she says, and I’m thinking, seventy-six? Is she having a stroke? There were less than ten guys there, and I put down half of them.” Hawke scoffed. “Quiet, you. Anyway, she turns around with a big, stupid grin— ow! It was! But suddenly, there’s murder in her eyes. I think oh shit, this how I die. She throws a knife dead at me. She’s so quick I don’t have time to register the steel coming at my face, just the breeze it makes as it whirls by my ear and the sound when it sinks into the guy behind me. I jump away, he staggers back, and she saunters up to both of us. ‘Seventy-seven,’ she says, ‘times I’ve saved your life.’ She pulls the dagger out of his eye, wipes it on him, and looks down at me, gloating. She says, ‘You got some blood on your coat,’ and walks off like it’s just another Tuesday.”

“It _was_ just another Tuesday,” she said with a grin.

The solar was crowded and noisy with the early comers, Aveline and Merrill, Denier and Serendipity from the Rose, a few of the regulars from the ‘Man. They chuckled with the conclusion of his tale and filled the small space with the rustle of stiff clothing as they broke into smaller groups and rose to refresh their drinks.

“Hawke.” Aveline towered over the two of them, fond irritation in her voice.

“Yes, Aveline?” 

Hawke scratched the ruff of loose skin at Mace’s neck. The pup closed her eyes and leaned against her thigh, the picture of contentment. A twinge of jealousy pricked in Varric’s chest. He bit his cheek. _Jealous of a dog. That’s a new low, Tethras._

“I needed to be at the barracks ten minutes ago. Am I still taking Mace for the night?”

Mace jumped to her feet with a happy yip. Aveline knelt down to look her in the eye.

“What do you say, girl? Want to stay with Auntie Aveline? It’s steak pie tonight.”

The pup barked again and set her huge paws onto Aveline’s broad shoulders to lick her square in the face. Varric curled his lip in disgust, but Aveline just laughed.

“I think that’s a yes,” Hawke said with a smile. She kneaded Mace’s ears with her knuckles and let her go with a pat. “You be good, girl. Auntie Aveline’s in charge.”

Mace cocked an ear toward her mistress and wagged her stump of a tail. Aveline patted her thigh, gauntlets _tak-tak_ against the steel greaves. Mace fell in at her heel without a glance back to Hawke, who sighed to watch them go. Varric stood to bump her gently.

“They grow up so fast,” he said.

“She already has more friends than I do,” Hawke said.

“Well, you could be that popular if you tried a little harder. You could start by begging for belly rubs from all of Kirkwall.”

She laughed. “Nah. Wouldn’t want to steal Mace’s thunder.”

They left the solar and split up to mingle. A bard plucked a lively tune on his lute as he walked around the room, hunting for the best acoustics. The sun had set while Varric held court, and Bodahn and Sandal were lighting torches to chase the deepening shadows back to their corners. Courtesans mingled with guards and Varric chuckled to see them work, even while they played. He took a goblet of ale to Denier, busy chatting up an increasingly flustered elf Merrill had invited along.

“Those rumors about us?” Denier winked. “All true.”

Varric pressed the goblet into his hands. “Which rumors about us?” he asked as he put a heavy arm around Denier’s shoulders. “The one that we’re always hard because we came from the Stone? Or the one about us all wanting to fuck our mothers?”

The elf slipped away, shaking her head. Denier lifted Varric’s arm from his shoulders with a grumble.

“I’ll fuck your mother. Don’t you know better than get between a dwarf and his business?”

Varric shrugged. “She wouldn’t have much to say on the matter, seeing as she’s been dead these last few years. Besides, you’re not here to work tonight. Relax! Eat! Drink! The hustle can wait ‘til tomorrow.”

Denier scoffed, but he did take a hesitant sip of the ale. “Huh. Nevarran?” Varric nodded. “Damn. I usually only get to serve this stuff. You’re alright, Tethras.” 

He wandered away. Varric glanced around the room for Hawke. He saw her bend down to whisper in the bard’s ear and point to an alcove near her writing desk. His ear tingled in sympathy, and he could almost feel the warmth of her breath in its shell, smell the malty notes of the ale mingling with the lilac in her hair. The bard left for his alcove, and Hawke stood to cast a lordly eye over her guests. She met his gaze across the room and gave him that lazy salute. He lifted his tankard in return.

“Brennan of the City Guard! Fenris, of… Hightown!” Bodahn’s jolly voice rang over the crowd.

Hawke greeted her new guests, then sauntered over to Bodahn, her eyes alight with booze and cheer. He looked up at her, his own eyes filled with the reflection of blazing torches and the roaring hearth. She put a light hand on his shoulder. Varric sidled closer to hear them.

“Bodahn love, you needn’t announce our guests. Come, you’re missing the party!”

He dropped his head with a bashful smile. “Oh, I don’t know, messere. I might just fix plates for Sandal and me and sit it out. But, are you sure you don’t want someone at the door?”

Hawke grinned. “Bodahn, my dear fellow. Half the people here are trained killers, and the other half are trained whores. Between the two of us, we have every possible situation covered.”

Bodahn’s cheeks reddened. He bowed stiffly. “Sandal and I will be in our quarters then. Th-thank you, messere.”

Varric’s stomach rumbled, and he checked his watch. Hawke appeared at his side to bump him with her hip.

“Feeling a mite peckish?” she asked.

“I’m getting too old to live on ale and salted nuts,” he said.

They went to the kitchen. The caterers streamed in from the side entrance bearing soup tureens and huge covered platters. Two grasped the largest cover and swept it away to reveal a suckling pig, skin burnished and steaming, a whole orange in its mouth. The servants lifted the platter as one and crossed smoothly into the main hall.

“Quite the spread,” he said.

“It’s not a party unless there’s at least one whole beast on a platter,” she replied.

A massive swordfish carried by two stout men followed the pig. “And here you are with two,” he said. “You were already the talk of the town with this… highly selective guest list,” he grinned. “Can’t wait to see what the wags have to say about it tomorrow.”

They followed the fish back into the main hall. A tumult of silk and skin erupted before them, the space full to bursting with courtesans and evening wear. A group of women in skin-tight, blazing red dresses were leading a circle dance to the bard’s sprightly tempo in the center of the room, their grasping hands pulling unwitting partners from the walls. One hooked her elbow in Anders’ arm and Varric grinned to see him swept into the beat. He was awkward and heavy at first, but he soon smiled and allowed himself to be led. 

Merrill joined in, coltish in her enthusiasm and hopelessly lost in the steps. She made her own dance then, willowy and delicate. The bard slowed his tune to match her, and the others stopped to watch. Daisy kept dancing, her eyes closed, unaware that she was now the show. She twirled, arms above her head, fingers trailing on unseen forms in the air. She lifted to her toes and she was ten feet tall, the angle of her raised knee the angle of summer shadows in late morning. She twirled again and leapt through the air, a hart in the forest. She landed with a sweep of arms, a falcon diving on its prey. No one spoke, no one breathed, no one made a sound but the bard, picking his slow song from the lute. Daisy raised one white arm, her fingers reaching, the lines of supplication. She followed it up, rising, her eyes to the ceiling, her toes pointed, the other arm before her as her leg lifted behind, knee bent, a lotus on the water. 

Someone whooped and broke the spell. Varric’s teeth snapped shut as Daisy dropped into herself, horrified to find every eye trained on her. She froze as they applauded, their approval battering her delicate senses. 

“Friends!” he boomed, clapping his hands. The party quieted, and Merrill made her escape as they turned their attention to him. “The food is hot and the ale is cold. Let’s not give them the chance to be otherwise.” 

Hawke found him at the banquet, her plate filled to the edges with shreds of pig, golden potatoes, and crisp sugar peas. She snapped a pea pod clean in her teeth, and spoke around it.

“Merrill sure gave us a show, huh? Nice save, by the way. She was about three breaths from siccing a demon on us.”

Varric chuckled and piled his plate high with shredded pig and fresh fruit, laying a strip of the crispy skin over it all. They found a clear table along the wall to rest their plates and watch the party.

“Think that was a Dalish dance, or something she made up as she went?” he asked.

“Knowing Merrill? A bit of both,” Hawke said as she tore into the meat. 

Varric watched the party as they ate. Fenris was the center of a knot of fascinated courtesans. He bore their interest well, a small grin on his face as he gave an answer that had them clutching bosoms and fanning themselves. The Rivaini had arrived fashionably late, surrounded by sailors and still more courtesans from the Rose. She challenged them to a knot tying contest, and laughed when several lengths of rope were produced.

“Not those knots,” her sultry voice murmured through the noise. 

She ate a cherry and took its stem into her mouth. Varric nudged Hawke, and they watched as Isabela grinned and pulled the stem from her lips, twisted into a simple knot. The sailors whooped and the courtesans huffed, and the game was on. ‘Bela took out a watch and timed the best of them, and they soon fell to arguing over what counted as a knot. 

“Can you do that?” he asked.

Hawke laughed. “The only cherries I ever had growing up were stolen,” she said. “I was too busy stuffing them in my face to learn tricks with the part you can’t eat.” She raised a brow. “Can you?”

He picked a cherry from the pile of fruit on his plate and popped it into his mouth. She watched as he chewed, watched as he played with the stem in his fingers. His pulse raced to be the focus of her attention, and he desperately hoped he hadn’t forgotten the trick of it. She watched his throat bob when he swallowed the sweet flesh, watched as he grimaced to take the pit from his teeth and lay it on the plate with a delicate porcelain _tik._ He held up the stem with a grin, showmanship standing in for confidence, placed it on his tongue, and watched her pupils dilate with interest and arousal as he worked the stem in his mouth. After a minute, he poked one side of the stem from his lips.

Hawke flicked her fingers. “Well?”

He pulled the stem from his mouth and held it out. She took it from him, her lips parted in surprise as she ran a finger along the knotted stem. She grinned and shook her head. Varric took a breath to speak, but it came out an undignified squawk as hands slammed down on their table. Isabela looked from him to Hawke and back again, a gleam in her eye. 

“You _didn’t_,” she said.

“Did what?” Hawke asked, innocence in those big green eyes.

“Varric,” ‘Bela purred, rounding on him, “don’t lie to your Rivaini.”

Varric looked at Hawke. Hawke looked at him.

“Rivaini,” he said, defensive, “what on earth are you talking about?”

She flicked her eyes at the cherry stem. “That, was in your mouth. It is absolutely _covered_ in your spit. No way would you offer it, and no way would Hawke accept, unless she has been, too.” Her lips curled over her teeth in a victorious grin as she fixed Hawke with a look that screamed sex. “How was the chest hair? Did you run your fingers through it? Did they feel like harts, racing through dewy morning fields?”

“The chest hair feels even more magnificent than it looks,” Hawke said with a sigh.

“About time,” ‘Bela said with a grin.

Varric scoffed as his ears burned. “About… what? About time, pff. What do you even—”

‘Bela pinned him with those dark whiskey eyes. “The way you introduced us? Maker’s balls, I’ve never seen you more possessive, not even with that gorgeous crossbow. I couldn’t bring myself to so much as _flirt_ with her properly, not without the fear of bringing your wrath down on my head. And you, Hawke! Don’t get me started. Always ‘Varric do you think this, Varric should we do that.’ It was _awful._”

Hawke sputtered. “I didn’t—”

“You _did._ Constantly.” They glared at her. “What? Why are you mad at _me?_ I’m happy for you! Not every day your best mates grow a pair.” 

She parted those perfect lips to say more, but a sudden roar made them all turn. 

Jethann had one of her sailors in a remarkable stress hold. Rivaini strode to them with every inch of her captain’s aura trembling, and Jethann let the man go.

“Well?” she demanded of the two.

“Was just a bit o’fun,” the sailor said, rubbing a blooming bruise on his neck.

Jethann looked the sailor up and down. “He didn’t realize the fun handful of skirt and ass he grabbed belonged to me,” he said with a sneer. “Rocky waters in this bay, little man. If that pathetic grip is the best you’ve got, you are definitely not prepared to handle them.” 

The others burst into laughter. Isabela chucked the sailor from the group and toward the door. She rounded on her entourage as the offender slunk from the party. 

“They’re not working tonight, you miserable dogs, they’re guests like the rest of us.” She shook her head. “No wonder half of you have the rot. No respect.” She turned to Jethann. “You alright?”

He made a show of looking her up and down with a salacious smile. “I could be better,” he said, raising a seductive brow. “Find me later, Captain.”

She relaxed as he sashayed through the party, then glanced back to Varric with a shrug. He waved her away, his quota of unwelcome insights into his personal life more than filled for the evening. She mouthed, _good for you._ He shrugged. She turned back to her diminished knot of ne’er-do-wells and struck up an old sea song, gesturing to the bard to accompany them.

Varric watched the party swirl, the dresses and the shined shoes, the bard’s lute and the sailors’ strong voices loud in the enclosed air. The song was made for the open sea. Its minor key and endless sustains made even the grand hall seem small and claustrophobic, too busy and too close. He glanced at Hawke, who was bouncing a foot and a bit out of sorts.

“Diamondback in the study?” he asked.

She gave the gathering one final look, and nodded. They refreshed their drinks and left for the library. His books had transformed the space, softening the hard corners of the shelves and warming the brown space with their muted jewel tones. He felt a knot release in his chest as he took a deep breath of that biblichor scented air. Daisy was there already, on her tiptoes stretching for a shelf just out of reach. Hawke crossed to her.

“Merrill? Something catch your eye?”

Daisy turned, cheeks red. “Oh no. Well, yes. You have a copy of Dalish fables I… I just wanted to see them again.”

Hawke plucked the book from the shelf, a thick volume bound in oxblood leather, spine uncracked, gilt edges that gleamed in the firelight. Varric stifled a laugh. That book alone could have funded a fifth of the expedition. Bartrand probably never knew he had it. Daisy took it from Hawke reverently, her fingers soft on the golden runes. She smiled with a soft bounce, and trotted up the stairs to curl on the chaise that overlooked the foyer. Hawke pulled a low table away from the fireplace while Varric pulled cushions from her hard, high chairs. 

She began shuffling as he settled, and their friends joined them as if summoned by the cards. Anders drifted through the door first, light as his feathers. He folded his long body to sit at Hawke’s left hand and he spread his fingers on the table, lost in the gleam of wood in the firelight. Hawke poked him as she started to deal, and he put them obediently into his lap. Fenris slunk in looking over his shoulder, hunted. A gaggle of gossips in heavy makeup tried to follow, but an amused shooing motion from Hawke sent them back to the party in a huff. 

They played hand after hand, copper pots to make it last. Daisy placed her book on the desk and joined them after a while, her hold on the cards so lax that half the table could see them. ‘Bela blew in through the tall doors toward the end of the night, a weary cast to her eyes that warmed as she snuggled between Fenris and Daisy. They played and joked as the hall outside quieted, and at last the bard found them. He set his lute in a corner, and Hawke dealt him in. 

Midnight came and went. Daisy slumped on ‘Bela’s shoulder, her cards scattered in her lap. Anders stifled a yawn and set off a chain reaction. Hawke laughed.

“Looks like our guest rooms will set off on their maiden voyage tonight,” she said.

Anders dropped his cards on the table. “I’ll see myself to the clinic,” he said, pushing heavily to his feet.

‘Bela and Fenris helped Daisy up, and Hawke left to show them upstairs. Varric turned to the bard.

“Well played tonight, out there and in here.”

He smiled. “It was my pleasure. Sadly, I have nothing to add. The only gatecrashers were that elf and the lowborn sods your pirate friend dragged in. All the rest were on your list, or employees of the Rose insulted that you’d overlooked them.”

Varric rubbed his brow. “Shit. Think anyone was left to work the floor? I don’t need Harlan’s knife aimed at my back, too.”

The bard shrugged as he strapped the lute to his back. “Most of his employees returned to the Rose with customers. You’re owed a nice thank you note, if he sends anything.”

“Well. Thanks for being my ears,” Varric said with a sigh.

“Any time, old friend,” the bard replied. He walked to the door, then turned. “If you want my take?” Varric tilted his head. “I watched her all night. I saw every interaction with every guest. She only had eyes for you.”

Varric grunted. “Well. I am irresistible.”

The bard smiled sadly. “Yes. As ever. I’ll deliver your letter. If there’s a reply, you’ll have it.”

Varric nodded, and he left. Hawke came back to the room soon after. He prepared his best roguish grin for her, but it froze when he met her eyes. She leaned on the door frame, shoulders tight and face hard.

“Who was that?”

He swallowed against the constriction at his throat. “Who, the bard? He’s a bard. A traveling purveyor of music and merriment.”

“Music, merriment, and infiltration, apparently.”

“He’s an old family friend,” Varric said, defensive. “I thought we should have a sober set of eyes at the party.”

“Why? You expected trouble from a room full of whores and mercenaries?” Her eyes twinkled, but he could have cut himself on their shine.

He shrugged even as his heart thudded on his ribs. “I’m a dwarf. Our gatherings usually involve a certain amount of backstabbing both figurative and literal. I was covering our bases.”

“That doesn’t explain why he was watching _me._”

He tried for levity. “Have you seen yourself lately?”

She pushed off the frame. He stood, wary. She stopped a pace away. His fingers twitched toward the knife in his boot. He curled them into a fist, scolding himself for that involuntary reaction to the cold fury rolling from her. He met her glare with his own, obstinate to the last.

“Your friends are always welcome in my home, Varric,” she said smoothly, “but next time, you’ll introduce us properly.” He nodded, tight. “As for tonight,” she took a step back and motioned to the door, “you should go.”

Varric’s gut twisted and sunk, dragging the rest of him with it. He drew the old ice-rimed anger around the ache, him against the world once more. 

“Right. See you around, Hawke.”

“If I want to be seen.”

It was a long walk back to the Hanged Man.

…

He pulled from the tankard and curled his lip at the aftertaste, too much like the rot that crept into their camaraderie that evening. He shoved off the chair and set the ale on the table with a sigh. It would get worse, so much worse before it got better. In a way, he was glad for the Seeker’s impatience. It saved him from lying outright about the worst months, when he didn’t see her at all. 

He pushed himself up onto the bed. The linens smelled like him now, and he didn’t know if that was a curse or a comfort. Somewhere in between, he thought with a huff. He laid his head on the crushed pillow and remembered, lest history repeat itself. He was no better a man than the one who had betrayed his friend’s trust in her own home, and no wiser than the one who thought he could set a spy on Hawke and not be caught out. He was no better, but he was older. He did what old people like him did best, and sank into the past.


	16. Rosewater and Raw Iron

“Itch dust!” The man glared down at Varric, his face red and blistering. “Maker’s hairy ass, Tethras, you didn’t tell me I was watching a bloody alchemist! Reassign me, or I’m going back to Aethenril.”

Varric rubbed his brow. “Fine, fine. Go to the docks, keep an eye on Arlath for me.”

The man stomped from the room, grumbling and scratching. That was the fourth operative Hawke had hounded from the watch he’d put on her. Tried to put on her. The itching powder was new. The first had done well for a fortnight, enough to establish a rough pattern of Hawke’s days. She and ‘Bela spent every night that first week carousing and picking fights at the Broken Anchor, a Guild-owned tavern in Hightown. It was the kind of thing ‘Bela was known for in four countries, but he worried about Hawke. There was something in the way his man described her, unhinged and dangerous, that he’d never observed for himself. Dangerous yes, always that, but the Hawke he knew never lost control. He considered dropping by one night, but he didn’t dare step foot in any place owned by the Guild. He’d missed too many meetings. Besides, she knew where to find him. That she didn’t bruised his pride more than he liked to admit.

After a handful of hours, they would get either kicked out of or bored with the Anchor and return to Hawke's estate, and the endless scenes of _what were they doing together_ burned in his gut like bad whiskey. He was fond of his Rivaini, but it was 50/50 on whether she’d break Hawke’s heart, or stick a dagger through it. He’d have a talk with her, just as soon as he could nail her down for a minute or two. She’d been as slippery as Hawke since the party. 

The women woke late each morning to coffee on the balcony, then they would leave for the rest of the day to haunt the docks or scrap with the various and sundry gangs that sprouted like weeds from Lowtown’s cobbled streets. Hearing all this secondhand was supposed to ease the sting of not being invited. The watch was, if one caught him in an honest mood, as much for his benefit as hers. But, every debrief forced him to confront the yawning chasm in his days where she’d been. He held on tight to the bits and pieces others brought him, even though they cut. It was better than nothing.

Leandra returned and brought an end to Hawke’s misadventures with ‘Bela. She swept into the Amell estate flush with excitement and trinkets from Wycome, silk scarves, new dresses, and several casks of Antivan wine. Her presence filled the empty house in a way Hawke couldn’t on her own, and the visits to the Broken Anchor trailed off to once or twice a week. ‘Bela didn’t stay the night again, though she and Hawke would spend hours at the docks with a bottle of rum to watch the ships come and go. He watched them when he could, concealed in the shadows with a scarf over his nose to keep out the smell.

With Leandra’s return, the suitors returned as well. She held her own ball with ladies in elegant gowns and gentlemen wearing stiff-necked coats whose trains and tails swirled in formal dances led by tabor and pipe. Hawke danced with many young nobles that night, aloof in a scarlet gown that glimmered with thousands of black crystal beads. A group of young noblemen descended on the Hanged Man to hear his stories and drown their sorrows after a night of being snubbed by the lady Hawke. Varric swirled his wine and bit his cheek to keep the hard smile from his lips, and waved to Edwina for another round as they poured every detail into his willing ears. He could see her perfectly, the angle of her body in the gown, the thick, hard muscle concealed by a careful drape of costly fabric, the haughty tilt of her chin, the predatory smile when some fool asked for a second dance. He honed the precision of the image, twisting his chest with it until he could barely breathe. He fled to his rooms to stare at the invitation, the fine vellum, Leandra’s elegant handwriting, an unanswered request to respond. He threw it into the fire.

After that, the information dried up. The man who’d reported so faithfully stormed into his suite the next morning stinking of rotten eggs. Somewhere through the shouting, Varric learned that Hawke had discovered his man’s position and trapped it with half a dozen sulfur bombs. He quit on the spot. The second managed two days. She reported that Hawke and her mother visited the haberdasher one day, and a sunny cafe across the square from their home the next. On the third morning she grabbed the railing she’d used to vault into her perch and found it dripping with hide glue. She’d been quick enough to release the rail, but her fingers were stuck together and her tunic dripped with globs of the stuff. Varric put a kettle of water over his fire, sent for a fresh tunic, and reassigned her to the Gallows. The third didn’t last half a day before Hawke knocked him out with ether, shaved his head, and leaned him near the door of the Hanged Man with a sign hung ‘round his neck: Merchandise Returns, c/o Varric Tethras. 

Varric laid low after that, eking out a patchy picture of Hawke’s life without him from what he cobbled together in the dailies from his Hightown contacts. He caught glimpses of her in Lowtown, ‘Bela’s laugh tinny and too bright, Hawke’s shoulders slumped and her eyes flat, even when she smiled. He would scuttle home to bury himself in his businesses, taking comfort in the cold logic of tracking fluctuations in the timber market or adjusting interest rates in light of the saber rattling between Ferelden and Orlais. He wrote another letter and received a reply, lightly scented with jasmine and hot iron. A date. He waited for the old flame to roar to life in his chest, but the response was muted, as though he watched from afar through smoky glass. A loose page caught his eye. It was a docks report, the harbor master’s assistant on the take again, another faction of the Raiders harassing the night shift, Hawke and ‘Bela spotted under the full moon, sitting together on the broken quay and singing sea songs at the tops of their lungs. 

Regret sunk its claws deep into his gut and the phantom pain made his head spin. He needed more than the scraps he was getting. He needed her, needed to be part of her days again. He dashed off another order to his best man. _Watch her. Do not be seen. Do not underestimate her. Keep her safe._

That was four days ago. Four days and already Hawke had outplayed him. He rubbed his brow as the man slammed the tavern’s door.

“If you want something done right,” he muttered to himself.

He signed off on the latest shipping manifest and shrugged into his coat. Months had passed since their… misunderstanding. A small, unwelcome voice piped up. _You spied on her, in her own home, at her own celebration._ He shook his head. He was watching out for her the best he knew how, and still she fought him for every inch. 

He walked to Hightown with his face in the sun and the cool autumn breeze in his hair. He’d considered a disguise, but she’d see through it. He knew her balance, the exact arc of her stride, the gentle curve of her spine at a walk or a sprint. He could pick her out of a crowd at a hundred paces without ever seeing her face. He wasn’t so stupid as to think she couldn’t do the same for him.

Bianca shifted rhythmically in her harness as he jogged up the steps, light on the balls of his feet. He kept his ears open as he crossed the merchant’s square, but no one mentioned her. His Hightown contact’s gaze slid over him with just enough friction to say he'd been noticed. Varric scratched his more in reply and fell in with a group of Lowtown merchants on their way to the keep. They walked up the steps toward Guild square, and he kept them between him and that treacherous corridor.

A sharp ache lanced through his chest when he saw Hawke’s door and recognized the new crest shining in the late morning sun. The Amell knot had been re-imagined as hawk wings. It was ferocious and elegant, and it suited her perfectly. He continued to the small café across the square and took in all he could from the corner of his eye as people passed him on the way to the rest of their lives.

He skirted around a column and stopped dead in his tracks. The busy square fell away as he confronted the very scene he’d conjured in his latest, most desperate hours. Hawke sat in his café loose and happy, a goblet of wine traveling to her perfect, smiling lips. She wasn’t alone. He lost himself in a passing knot of Chantry sisters. They crossed the corridor and never noticed him at all, not even as he trod on their long robes in his distraction. He fell from their midst when they left the wide passage and dropped to kneel by a column wound in ivy. He buttoned his shirt.

Hawke’s back was to him. He studied her companion over her shoulder. He was young and blond, hair short in the new fashion, his clothing rich but functional, a leather coat, a tunic dyed deep blue and edged in silver thread. He laughed. Hawke leaned back in her chair and swirled her wine, and Varric could tell from the way her shoulders trembled that she was laughing too. The world seemed to shift, a sharp tilt as though he’d just now learned that the direction he’d thought of as “up” had really been “left” the whole time. His gut wrenched with the new perspective. He leaned hard on the column and sucked in huge gulps of air suddenly green with the ivy he’d crushed under his arm.

Months. Three, to be exact. Three months he’d watched from afar, hundreds of sovereigns wasted while he was torn between vicious righteousness and wanting to fall at her feet to beg forgiveness. Now that he’d seen her, all he felt was regret. It consumed him in a growing spiral; regret that he never asked her to stay, regret that he never offered. Regret that his doubts had pushed him to cross a line, and that his pride kept him from making amends. 

She tilted an ear back to his hiding place. He caught his breath and held it, heart thudding in his chest. The young noble glanced over her shoulder and missed him completely. Varric’s lip curled in a small, mean victory. _Yes, overlook the dwarf, you stupid human. I’ve already had what you seek._ The mean victory twisted and sank, as mean victories did. _Had and lost,_ he amended.

The noble turned back to Hawke with a shake of his head, and she relaxed. Varric’s fists clenched. She trusted him. He’d missed the threat completely, but she trusted him anyway. The thought soured. He, Varric, was the threat in this scenario. That’s what he’d become. He watched Hawke and her companion. They talked with an easy camaraderie, him smiling often, her posture unguarded. Frozen stone began filling the void within him, heavy and cold. This was the inevitable end to their dalliance, a worthy nobleman for Hawke, and for him, letters scented with iron and jasmine and a crossbow made with all the love he couldn’t keep.

He pulled the letter from his pocket as they lingered over their meal, and though he’d committed every word and smudge to memory, he read it again.

_Hey Spots,_

_You’re such an idiot. I’d forgiven you before I reached the door. Your brother was always an ass, but I never thought I’d see the day he betrayed his family. I can only imagine what that was like for you._

_The thaig is fascinating, and terrifying. How could you stand to walk through it, not knowing if you’d see daylight again? Well, I suppose it wasn’t your first choice. There are already several buyers interested in the larger pieces, though removing and transporting them is going to be a nightmare. Don’t worry, I’m making them pay for all of it, along with the guards we’ve needed to keep us safe. The darkspawn are getting stronger now, only a matter of time before this passage is overrun. I’m looking for another, but that kind of thing always takes time._

_I’ve decided on my artifact. You know that Arlath has been sending me copies of his inventory? I figured you’d signed off on it, but you’re right, he’s a slippery bastard. He was my only contact who’d have the knowledge to work on this, though, and those wedding debts? He owes them to me. No one else would front him the funds for something so frivolous as a dowry. Stone-struck old fool._

_Anyway, one of his lists included something he called “miniature smith’s tools, 21, unknown alloy.” I think that’s what they used to work lyrium. They say that working solid lyrium is impossible, but from what you described in your first letter, these dwarves could. Can you imagine? The ability to tame and shape pure lyrium to something safe enough to hold? Or wear? I shiver just thinking about it._

_I can meet you at the old place soon. Your letter was lovely as always, but hearing you apologize in person will be sweeter. And tell your friend to learn some new songs. All of his were about changing seasons and sweetness falling to rot. It made for a very unpleasant gala._

_Yours,_  
_Beryl_

“Sure you should be waving that around?”

Varric leapt to his feet, crumpling the letter as he shoved it into his pocket. Hawke watched him scurry away, dark humor glinting in her eyes. She rose slowly to her full height, liquid and menacing. He glared at her from under his heavy brows.

“Hawke.”

“Varric.”

“It’s rude to read over someone’s shoulder.”

She laughed. “That’s rich, coming from you. Got tired of losing people, hm? About time you came yourself.”

“They were there for your protection.”

“Were they?” She tsked. “No, I think they were there to soothe your guilty conscience. All you had to do was apologize, you know.”

“For what?”

She sighed. “You’re stubborn, Varric, not stupid.”

Fine.” He grumbled. “No more tails. You want to take everyone on by yourself, be my guest.” Looked like she was moving on well enough without him. Leandra’s endless maneuvering had to pay off eventually.

“Mother misses you,” she said, her ability to pick up on his train of thought seemingly unchanged. “She wanted to invite you for supper to thank you for her trip to Wycome.”

“But you talked her out of it?”

“Hardly. She’s a grown woman and can do as she pleases. I may have forgotten to pass this on, though.” She handed him a wrinkled envelope sealed with the new Hawke crest.

“You just happened to have this with you?”

“I was going to pay you a visit after lunch.” Her taunting smile faded. “Tiff and Snoots were murdered. Bergie nearly died too, but Anders saved her.”

Varric frowned. “Tiff? The Fereldan with the dogs?”

She nodded. “I visited them a few times to train Mace. We were supposed to meet yesterday, but the door was off its hinges and there was… blood, on the walls.” She leaned against the column. “I found them, Varric. She was still warm.”

His mind raced. “Did you alert the Guard?”

“Just Aveline. She set a guard at the door and assigned a detective, but she warned me that it won’t be a priority. She… actually mentioned I should ask you.”

That surprised him. “Wait, are we talking about the same Aveline? Tall, red hair, actually a battering ram shaped like a woman, thinks I’m a criminal?”

“You are a criminal.”

“Prove it.” The ghost of a smile flickered over her face. He latched onto it like a dying man does the idea of water. “Told you to ask me. Huh. Let’s talk in my suite.”

She stood aside to let him pass and fell in at his right hand. He filled his chest with the light fragrance of leather and lilac in her wake, and it lost the tightness that had settled there since… well, since. He ran a hand over his hair.

“She had a husband, right?”

Hawke nodded. “Teach. I met him a few times. Quiet, intense, didn’t miss a trick. He’d been a student in Orlais at the university. Came to Ferelden some fifteen years ago to study mabari, ended up falling in love with them. And with Tiff. He gave up his place for her, went to teaching in the nearby village so he could stay. He still does. Teach. Has a class for the refugee kids at the imports shop every morning.”

They passed by Hawke’s estate, its white stone blinding in the sun. The ivy twining up the great stone blocks was turning already, rust spots growing from the edges in. It’d be winter soon. He held his duster closed with one hand as they passed by the narrow corridor to the Guild district. Hawke glanced down and chuckled.

“Still skipping the meetings?”

“My cousin can handle them.”

“Not the family pet?”

“He’s busy with the beet farm.”

“Ah, of course.”

She got a bit ahead of him then, and he took the opportunity to study her more closely. She was dressed in her dwarven leathers, even for lunch, though the crossed daggers were missing from her back. He let his eyes slide down and found a blade at her hip, and two more tucked into her boots. The outline of several smaller throwing knives pressed against the leather covering her thigh, and a tinkle of glass sounded from the soft pouch at her belt. He chuckled quietly. Seemed those reports of her carelessness had been exaggerated.

“How’s Teach?”

She grunted as she took the stairs two at a time. “I stumbled out with Bergie just as he was coming from his class. He’s with her and Anders at the clinic. Maker knows how I’d have gotten her there in time without him. Anders got her stabilized and we all went up to give the last rites. Had to just about carry him out when we were done.”

He whistled. They passed by Hubert, who tossed a small purse to Hawke. She gave him a lazy salute and peeked inside as they crossed to the stairs leading to Lowtown.

Varric looked straight ahead and asked a hard question. “Did you look around? What do you remember?”

Hawke took a breath. “Yeah. Tiff looked peaceful. The wound was clean. Well, clean as a stab wound can be. One to the back, straight to the heart, no struggle. Bergie and Snoots, though,” she shuddered, “lots of struggle. Lots of blood. Anders counted sixteen wounds as he closed them. Snoots had more.”

“Void take it,” Varric breathed.

They stepped from the last stair into Lowtown. Hawke cut through the center of the bazaar and people scattered before her. Varric trotted at her heels with an apologetic grimace. She didn’t stop until they reached the ‘Man.

“Sure you don’t want to go there now?” she asked.

“Not yet,” he said. “I want to hear everything you remember. Every detail. We go there, it’ll get muddy. Especially if the Guard has been through.”

She nodded, hesitant. He pushed the door open and she drifted toward the bar. He touched her elbow. She flinched away, just as she had in the beginning. Shit. He dropped the offending hand and tilted his head to his suite.

“Got something better upstairs.” She rubbed her elbow and followed.

He looked through his personal stash as she settled into her chair. He set two heavy glass tumblers filled with a double finger of his best whiskey on the table when she'd stilled. She picked one up with a scrape of glass on stone and swirled the amber liquid, watching as it danced.

“You said the door was forced?” he asked, softly.

“Looked like from the inside, like… like they were trying to get away. From the dogs, most likely. Whoever did this mistook mabari for house pets. Front room was busted up, lots of blood. That’s where I found Bergie, im—” she swallowed, “impaled. On a stool. Snoots was in the kitchen, head caved in. Blunt force, something heavy, someone strong. There was a kettle on the fire, still whistling. Tea, dry in her chipped teapot.” She took a mouthful of whiskey, fingers tap-tap on his table. “She’d welcomed them, offered them tea. Two plates on the table, one broken on the floor. Tin of biscuits—” she sniffed. “Damn it all, Tiff. I told you… I bloody told you this en’t Ferelden…” She knocked the remaining whiskey back. “She was always taking in strays.”

“Anything else?” She shook her head. Varric sighed. “We should go there, see if there’s anything you missed. See if the dogs pulled anything off the people who did this.”

Hawke nodded. She stood stiffly, fingering the dagger at her hip. Varric’s own fingers itched to hold hers, to soothe her jangled nerves, to press against the knots he knew were tied into her back. He opened the door instead. The walk to the tenement was familiar and shadowed, something that had been bright, now twisted and cursed. Aveline’s guard was nowhere to be seen. They stepped through the ruined door, and the stink of dry blood and death hit them like a physical blow. Hawke coughed into her hands and left them there, eyes bright with tears. Varric pulled a kerchief from his pocket and held it over his nose. It didn’t really help.

They stepped around the wreckage of the front room, a splintered table, overturned stools, one broken and covered in blood, and into the kitchen. Tiff’s body had been removed for her pyre, but the pool of blood she’d lain in was still there, nearly black in the low light, congealing on the sturdy table and the floor below. Snoots was gone as well, blood and brains where he’d died. Varric lowered himself to the worst of it, looking for a bit of skin, a scrap of cloth…

“Huh. Hand me a knife?” She did. He flicked through the gore. “Whoever did this is missing a finger,” he said, pushing it around in the thick blood. He couldn’t tell what color it was, or even which digit, but it was something. “Anders didn’t have any patients roll in less a finger while you were there?” She shook her head. “Shame. We should check with the Circle healers, though if the mercs were from a big enough outfit they may have their own.”

“Mercs?”

“Most likely. Too messy for assassin work, but Tiff was too clean for it to be personal. Someone paid for this, but why?”

Hawke grunted. “The mabari, most like. Someone got jealous, felt they were owed a pup, felt they were owed what Tiff an’ Teach had. They’d done well for themselves, for refugees. It’s the best way to get on everyone’s shit list.”

Varric stood to regard her. He wondered if she knew she’d slipped into her thick Fereldan burr. She met his eyes.

“It is,” he said, leaning on the implications as hard as he dared.

She crossed her arms and looked away. “Let’s split up. I’ll check in with Anders, you go to the Gallows. Meet back at the ‘Man when you’re done.” She left before he could agree.

The Circle healers hadn’t repaired any mauled hands lately. He waited in the tavern, mouth closed and ears open, but it was too early for more than dilettante day drinkers and the most determined of alcoholics, and neither group was likely to know more than their next order. The door opened again. He didn’t bother looking up until someone slid onto the bench opposite him, doggy toenails clicking behind her on the stone floor.

“Hawke. Mace.”

Mace dropped to her haunches beside her mistress. She’d nearly doubled in size since he’d last seen her up close, and her warm coffee eyes rested on him, ever watchful. He had no idea what he’d done to that dog, but Maker’s breath she did not trust him one bit. Hawke rested her hand on Mace’s ruff and she relaxed, shifting to lean against Hawke’s side as she cracked her jaws to pant amiably. Varric started counting teeth in a fit of _l'appel du vide_ perversity

“Teach had a lead for us. Gang of Fereldans in Darktown wanted a pup for their mascot, but Tiff turned ‘em down flat. There were threats, bad blood, but they left when Bergie told them to back off.”

He dragged his attention back to her. “They listened to Bergie and not Tiff?”

Hawke shrugged. “Fereldans. They have a hangout under the docks warehouses. Come with us? Could get ugly.”

“Wait. Why would they go after the mabari if they respect them so much?”

“Like you said, it wasn’t personal. They probably paid someone off to send a message but didn’t mention the dogs because they’d just assume whoever they sent would know. Couldn’t do it themselves ‘cause the refugee community is tight. Everyone with kids knows Teach.”

Varric stood slowly. “The docks, huh. I was just thinking it had been too long since I had rotten fish guts splashed up to my ankles.”

The docks weren’t his least favorite place, but they were damn close. Bells clanged too loudly and sailors called to each other in their harsh, booming voices as the cold wind blew across the waves with its perfume of creosote, wet hemp, and rotting fish. He pulled his collar up and did his best to bury his nose in the warm leather. Hawke and Mace put their faces right into the salty breeze, and he watched with a mix of jealousy and contempt as they breathed the stink in and relaxed under its miasma.

“Come on,” he groused, “Bianca can’t handle much of this salty air.”

Hawke took one more deep breath and let it out with a sigh. The corner of her lips twitched down, and Mace leaned hard into her. She dropped a hand to rub the pup’s shorn ears for a moment, and a stab of something curiously near to guilt hit him in the lungs. Hawke cleared her throat and turned to him, her eyes flinty.

“Right. This way.”

She led them down a narrow flight of stairs into the Undercity. The cold stink of the docks mingled with the close, stuffy reek of Darktown in those narrow halls. He coughed into his sleeve and sucked in the warm, round scent of leather and sandalwood at the crook of his elbow. Hawke led him through the warren of the Undercity to a large room overlooking the water. A dozen big dusters lounged there, playing cards and mending armor. Hawke cleared her throat.

“Oi, what’s it then?” Her accent was thick enough to spread on toast.

The woman with the biggest hat looked up from her card game. “Eh? Who’s asking?”

Hawke smiled with all of her teeth. “Hawke. You’ve heard of me, swear it.”

Big Hat stood and crossed her arms. “What of it if we have? En’t you got noble knobs to polish with them pert lips?”

Her dusters chuckled. Mace’s hackles raised and she growled low in her throat. Hawke put a hand on her ruff. Big Hat focused on the pup, recognition clicking in her sharp face.

“Oi, what you doing with our mabari?”

Mace’s growl turned to a snarl, her teeth bared. “Your mabari?” Hawke shook her head. “Mace’s chosen her mistress already, and you paid Tiff back unreasonable for it. Go on out with that shite.”

“Paid Tiff? We en’t seen that sow since she tossed me on my ear. Teach swore us that mabari, said she was uncouth and improper. Next we know, you step in and snap her off to your bloody grand estate.”

Varric held up his hands. “Wait. Teach tried to pass this demon hound off on you?” Big Hat nodded. He shot a look at Hawke. “Don’t mabari choose their masters? What would you have done with her if she didn’t warm to you?”

“Didn’t need her to like me. Didn’t need her to like anyone. She’d a’ been our guard. Best if she trusts no one, savvy?”

Hawke shook her head. “Sad life for mabari, not trusting no one.”

Big Hat rolled her eyes. “Easy for you, prancing about nobletown, shitting sovereigns to judge. Life’s crap fer everyone down here, you mincing whoremouth—”

“Tiff’s dead. And Snoots.”

That stopped her. She stared at Hawke, processing the new information slowly. She frowned.

“And someone fingered us?”

Hawke shrugged. “Might’a mentioned bad blood.”

Big Hat shook her hat. “Weren’t us. Tiff may have been a cold, arrogant bitch, but we en’t animals. She was Fereldan through and out. We kept, even if she didn’t.”

Hawke scrubbed her face in her hands. “Alright,” she sighed. “You hear whatnot, you tell me. She was my friend.” Big Hat sat back down to her card game with a dismissive wave.

Varric made a note to ask what they were keeping as they retraced their steps in silence. They approached the gate to the docks. Mace growled a warning, and they stopped. Soft footfalls patted behind them.

“Kss, Hawke,” a low voice whispered.

They turned to see that one of the Fereldans had followed them. He leaned on the grimy wall and tried to look cool and confident. Hawke crossed her arms, cocked her hip, and succeeded.

“About Tiff. Heard a merchant get into it with her as we left. Something about he wanted mabari for his stall, but none of the pups would have him. He wouldn’t leave be, and she set Bergie on him to make him go. He passed by in a rush, stinking of roses and curry, muttering about protecting a shipment of orchal-something.”

Varric scowled. “Roses and curry, and a shipment of orichalcum? That’s Halford’s Reagents. The family’s been in Kirkwall for generations, almost back to the Tevinters.” He sucked his teeth. “Shit.”

“Shit?” Hawke raised a brow at him.

“The Halfords have been merchants forever, but they’ve never had the clout to be a noble house. Resentment’s bred into them like bad teeth and a complete lack of business sense. They’re a running joke in the Guild. Every dwarven house has at least one story of fucking over a Halford. Bartrand sold an entire shipment of saffron out from under him once, but the dumb bastard could never prove it.” Varric sighed. “He’s definitely the type to punch down.”

“Shall we pay him a visit, then?” Hawke asked, thanking the Fereldan with a nod.

“I’d rather pick a fight with a pack of rabid squirrels, but sure, let’s shake down the meanest spicemonger in all of Kirkwall.”

The docks were just as cold and smelly as they’d left them. Varric shoved his hands into his pockets to stroke the folded parchment with his thumb. She’d forgiven him in her ignorance, but he hardly deserved it after everything he’d done. Hawke walked a bit ahead of him, Mace at the side that had once been his. He gripped the parchment against the raw ache at being so thoroughly replaced. That he’d done it to himself salted the wound.

He forced his mind to the last letter, the date hastily scratched, a light scent of molten iron. He clung to the tiny spark of anticipation it struck in him, faint but durable, and steeled his resolve around it. Hawke had found her pretty nobleman. He had… well. He felt the world right itself as he cut his losses and counted his blessings. It chafed in the usual places, but his calluses were thick. He had what he had. A letter, a crossbow, a date, and a promise.

The sun’s cold rays slanted on the white walls of Hightown and painted them with a golden brush. Varric drew his collar up against the gritty wind that blew in from Lowtown as ivy rustled in dry whispers around the square. Hawke stopped, waiting for him.

“You know where he is?” she asked.

Varric nodded and took the lead. She followed a pace behind, her leathers shushing and Mace’s claws clicking with each step. The sound triggered a vivid memory _Hawke tosses her cuirass atop the pile of her armor, green eyes full of laughter and dark with desire as she reaches for him, deft fingers sliding and teasing, their strength as she pulls him down to her, as they dig into his back, as he—_ She stumbled into him and the vision shattered. Her chest crashed into the back of his head, and he was vaguely aware of the subtle give of her breasts beneath the hardened leather. He caught her elbow to steady her. She didn't shy away.

“Andraste’s tits, woman, watch where you’re going,” he grumbled.

“Sorry, sorry,” she said with a chuckle. “You are a bit invisible when you stop right in front of me, though.”

“Short jokes, Hawke?”

She scoffed. “The truth, dwarf. If I told a short joke, you’d be laughing.”

“I doubt that. Listen, I was thinking. We shouldn’t just walk up while he’s working. Let’s keep an eye on him til he closes shop. Might be… enlightening.”

She squinted at the raised walks that lined the square. “Which one is he?” Varric pointed. “This way.”

She walked back the way they’d come, then turned sharply to a secluded gate wreathed in brittle honeysuckle. She glanced around, picked the lock, and ushered them through. The gate closed with a soft, well-oiled click. She took point and brought them up a narrow flight of stairs, chipped and scattered with dead leaves that whispered under their feet. She told Mace to stay at the top landing and motioned Varric through a half-sized door. He pushed Bianca through first, then himself with much peevish muttering. Hawke chuckled quietly as she folded her long form through, graceful and practiced.

“Show off,” he said as he looked around.

She’d taken him to a false front, part of the old underground resistance. Countless slaves had run through these halls during the Imperium’s bloody reign, until the day they’d stopped running and started hitting back.

“I thought these had been destroyed,” he said, running his fingers over the ancient graffiti scratched into the stone.

“And lose a perfectly good bit of surveillance architecture? I’m sure some were destroyed, but there are plenty still standing if you know where to look.”

“Huh. Your sometime royal assassin teach you this one?”

“We can’t all be dashing businessmen with perfect chest hair and repeating crossbows.”

He glanced at her. Teeth glinted in the low light, a gently mocking grin as she flicked her eyes down to him. She knelt before a narrow window and brushed desiccated leaves from the glass. He did the same, pleased with the unbroken view of the entire square. She tilted her head to it, and he nodded his appreciation.

“Is this how you found my guys?” he asked.

She grunted. “They practically begged to be found, the third in particular. You know he traipsed over my roof in the night like a spotty apprentice? Your last one was competent, at least. How long had he watched me? Two days?”

“Three. You nailed him with itch dust on his fourth morning.”

She cackled. “He never saw it coming. Oh, I’d had that ready for weeks, Varric.” She shook her head with a sigh. “Was it so awful to come to me yourself?”

He held up a finger for silence. Two men in scuffed leathers approached Halford’s stall. He cursed the distance and the glass between them, but their figures spoke volumes. One held his hand close to his belly, protecting it. They were upset, arguing. Halford’s meaty hands clenched into meaty fists and his cheeks bloomed red, holding his ground. The merc with the hand held it up, gesturing angrily to it. Halford shook his head, turned his fist to a blade and swept the argument away. He waved a guard down then, pointing to the two mercs with hunched shoulders and another shake of his head. The guard turned to them and tilted her head toward Lowtown, and the men slunk from the square.

“Odds on that being the body our finger was missing?” Hawke murmured.

“I wouldn’t bet against it,” he replied.

“They weren’t Reds.”

“Coterie. I’ve seen the taller one around. Halford’s dumber than a box of baby nugs if he thinks he can call the Guard on Coterie when they come to collect.”

“What are they doing in the open like that?”

Varric chuckled. “Oh Hawke, you’re so cute when you’re naive. This was a message, and that message is _nowhere is safe for you now._ That guard? Paid to look the other way. She saw them from a mile off, but she wasn’t going to interfere until Halford forced her hand.”

“Oof. Aveline is not going to like that.”

“Right. Let me know when you plan on telling her. I’d like to be at least three leagues from the Keep when she hits the roof.”

“Of course. You’d need, what, a day’s warning? Two?”

“Ha-ha, human.”

“See? I got you to laugh at the short joke.”

“That wasn’t—”

“So what’s our next move?” she asked, cutting him off with a grin.

He rubbed his brow, grinning back despite himself. Maker’s breath, being up to their old tricks again felt good. It felt right. She caught his eye with a tilt of her chin and nodded toward the square. The merchants were shuttering their stalls for the night.

“Standard procedure, right? Follow him, pull him into a blind alley, get some answers.”

Hawke clenched her jaw as she stood. He followed her through the door and stretched on the landing, then leaned down to rub a tight muscle loose. He caught Hawke’s eyes as they flitted down the gap in his tunic. He straightened and cleared his throat.

“My eyes are up here, Hawke.”

She met them with a sad smile that tugged at the corner of her lips. He shook his head and started down the stairs, slow and careful now that night had fallen. They reached the square just in time to see Halford plod around a corner. Hawke slipped into the shadows, leaving Mace with Varric. The pup whined softly after her.

“Let her go, girl. She knows what she’s about.”

Mace flicked her ear back to him, dismissive, and whined once more. He shrugged at her, _suit yourself,_ and they continued walking slowly through the darkened corridor. A muffled shout and the dull thunk of a body hitting stone had them running to the next square. He stopped just short of the corner to listen. Mace did as well, ears stiff with interest.

“Don’t speak.” Hawke’s whisper tickled his ears like iced velvet. “One word and I will gut you like a fish. Nod if you understand me.” A rustle of hair on leather. “Good. Did you try to buy a dog from a Fereldan in Lowtown four months ago?” A rustle. “Were you successful?” Another, its pitch lower. “Have you returned to the Fereldan’s home?” A pause. “I will eat your liver, merchant. Have you returned.” A jerky shift. “No. You just sent a message.” Silence. “One of your messengers lost a finger and asked for more, didn’t he.” Scrabbling, nails on rough stone. A crack. A whimper. “Shh, shh. I’m not with them.”

A guard turned down the corridor leading to Hawke’s square. Varric stepped around the corner, casual, just a dwarf on a post-supper constitutional with his trusty mabari, nothing to see here. He whistled a tune in the empty, moonlit square, _Have you heard the news, me Johnny?_ The news was time’s up, Hawke. He saw her in his peripheral, her back to him, her arms full of the merchant whose face was shoved fully into the corner of a small, ivy-choked alcove.

“Settle up with the Coterie, Halford. They aren’t as gentle as I am.”

She struck a sharp blow to his temple, and he crumpled into the wind-blown rubbish at her feet. She rifled his pockets before grabbing his satchel, then she sauntered into the square and slung it over her shoulder as the guard walked from the corridor’s shadow into the silvery light of the rising moon. Varric waited in the shade of a thick column near the Lowtown steps. Mace sat beside him, silent and stiff with the anticipation of her mistress’s return. Hawke crossed the square like she owned it, hips loose and shoulders back, and her stride didn’t falter once, not even as the guard exclaimed in surprise when she found Halford’s body slumped in the small alcove. The guard looked up but Hawke was gone, hidden behind closed stalls and the yellowing leaves of a caged tree. 

Varric caught her attention and she cut her eyes to the steps, _your place._ He nodded and moved through the shadows as she kept the tree between herself and the guard, and before he knew it, the Hanged Man’s door was swinging shut behind them, and they were safe. He breathed for the first time in what felt like hours. She followed him to his rooms.

“Don’t have more of that whiskey, do you?” she asked.

He set a tumbler before her and filled it. She downed half in one go, and he topped it off before corking the bottle. It was going to be one of those nights. Mace sprawled on the rug by his bed and immediately fell asleep. He took the satchel while she emptied her pockets, and they spread the loot over his table. He picked up a roll of parchment, well-marked and tied with violet ribbon. He pulled the tie loose and eased into his chair in a near meditation, poring over lines and lines of dry figures and hash marks, tallies and totals, profits in and expenses out. He was only vaguely aware of Hawke’s own puttering as she drank her whiskey and examined wrinkled scraps of vellum, small packets of various spices, and a jeweled pocketknife. She held the last up to the light, then slipped it into her own pocket. Varric chuffed.

“What? It’s pretty. Find anything good in the records?”

“Well, he’s not dumb enough to put ‘Coterie hitman’ in his expense accounts, but, he is engaged in a shocking amount of money laundering. Halford’s Reagents hasn’t turned a profit in years. It’s a front for a fleet of Raiders… guess old Halford finally wised up.”

“By turning to crime?”

“It’s the natural progression of things, really. His family’s trade in spices means they have contacts all over the continent, but they were never savvy enough to deal with the competition from the Guild.” Varric tapped the papers into a neat stack and rolled them again, replacing the violet ribbon. “We’ll nail him to the wall with this.”

“Well, that’s hardly satisfying.”

Varric shrugged. “People die in Kirkwall all the time.” Hawke flinched. “I… that came out wrong. But you saw how little the Guard was doing for them. They were townies, and refugees at that. That guard Aveline assigned to their door? I guarantee you they were in the bazaar looking at swords, or playing cards just downstairs. This, though?” He waggled the roll of parchment. “Thousands of sovereigns passing through the city every year, completely untaxed? They’ll exile him, strip him of his assets, and strike the Halford name from the lists. It’ll be like the whole family never existed.”

Hawke sighed. “You really think that’s the best we’re going to get?”

“I do.”

Mace grunted and whined in her sleep, paws a’twitch as she chased ancestors only knew what. Probably mercs. Hawke watched the pup and chewed her lip.

“Teach won’t understand… he’s been destroyed by this. His whole world gone. Twice. He wants blood.”

Varric rubbed his brow. “Shit, Hawke. I would too, but this is Kirkwall. Blood is cheap. This takes out a established family and the Raiders’ freshly washed coin.”

Hawke took the last mouthful of whiskey and rolled it on her tongue. Varric watched her wrestle with their choices. She swallowed and stood, woozy. He caught her shoulder as she sank back down.

“Hey, easy. When was the last time you ate?”

“Lunch. You don’t remember? You were there.” Her eyes slid over him, amused.

He groaned. “Fuck, Hawke. Alright, stay here. I’m getting you some of the ‘Man’s finest victuals. How does burned steak sound?”

“Extra crispy!” she called.

She’d passed out by the time he returned. A glass with drops of water clinging to its sides lifted some of the worry from his shoulders. He slung her arm around his shoulders and eased her up, cursing her ridiculous weight and the unreasonable length of human limbs. He made his slow way to his bed to lay her on top of the cover, and started pulling her daggers away before they could slice into the bedding. She shifted as he worked, sighing under his hands. He shivered, the sound sparking memories newly unwelcome but no less affecting. He laid her steel on the table and her leathers in a stack by the wall. 

He hesitated then, watching her in her linens, soft and vulnerable. She cracked an eye and smiled a lazy half-smile at him.

“I don’t bite. Hard.”

“I know exactly how hard you bite, Hawke. Go back to sleep. I have a case to build.”

She huffed and sat up. “This is about her, isn’t it.”

“Who?”

Hawke flicked her eyes to Bianca. “You’re meeting up. I couldn’t figure it out. Weeks I spent, learning your schedule, devising reasons to pass by here at just the right time. I know you saw me. Why didn’t you stop me?”

“Hawke. You kicked me out of your house. You were pretty clear you didn’t want—”

“Bloody flames, Varric! Mother asked why you didn’t attend her ball, and I didn’t have an answer. Aveline kicked me out of her office and made me swear I’d go to you, because even she could see how stupid this is. How many sovereigns did you waste spying on me? All you had to do was apologize but no, you chose to double down rather than admit you made a mistake. And after everything, you’d run back to her rather than try to fix _this._”

He scoffed. “What is _this,_ Hawke? What are we? Friends who kill people together? Business associates who fuck each other sometimes? What is there to fix?”

She got up and started yanking her armor back on. He bit his cheek as the cruel words soured his gut. This was wrong. Everything was fucking wrong and it was his fault. Again.

She slid her daggers into their sheaths and turned to him, fury glinting in her steely eyes.

“Forget the merchant, Varric. I’ll have my own satisfaction from him.”

She slammed his door open and left it to gape as she ran down the stairs. He squeezed the letter in his pocket, trying to breathe past the stone in his throat. He closed the door gently and went back to his chair to write a few quick orders. Hawke couldn’t get to Halford before his network could. She would understand when it was done. 

…

Varric pushed up with a frustrated grunt. The patchy fur slumped down his chest, little shocks pricking him in the dry air. He kicked it down and slid from the bed, hitting the floor hard. Well. If his asshole mind wanted to dwell, he would dwell. He stoked the embers in the hearth and laid a new fire on them, shoving the kindling and firewood roughly. He yanked the fur from the bed and tucked himself into the chair under it. 

“Come on then, you bastard,” he muttered, “get it all out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoookay so, this is the first time I've ever attempted to write a murder mystery. I hope it wasn't too silly! And, I'm sorry for the angst. So much dumb angst! I won't leave you here, though, promise.


	17. *I'm Not Calling You a Liar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Smut! Not the main ship! Some of you will be mad! I WAS MAD! But, I couldn't do their story justice without it. Feel free to let it all out in the comments! Starts at "He kissed each finger" and ends with " “I can’t,” was all he could offer."
> 
> TW no. 2: Miscarriage mention, past tense. Emotions only.

The dawn came bright and cold. Varric met it on the docks, pacing as longshoremen trundled the last of the artifacts along the boardwalk. Arlath walked behind them, parchment in hand, muttering under his breath. He’d exchanged his dirty old robes for new ones that were somehow worse. Contrasting black and gold embroidered in sharp angles made him look like a gilded podium the taller races would make speeches over. The walking furniture glanced up with a frown.

“Messere Tethras. If you’re looking for the last of your coin, I don’t have it. The ship ran into bad weather, and was forced into port at Jader. Last I heard it’ll be a week before she’s seaworthy enough to return.”

Varric crossed his arms. “If that’s the case, where are you going? Don’t you want the rest of your commission?”

Arlath shuffled his feet. “My debts are paid and then some. Spring storms mean I’ll miss my little girl’s wedding if I stay on any longer—”

Varric snatched the dwarf’s robes and pulled him nose to nose. “The gems, Arlath. Where are they?”

Arlath’s rheumy eyes widened. His sour breath gusted on Varric’s chest as his mouth worked silently. Varric set him back on his feet and smoothed the wrinkles he’d set into the gaudy cloth.

“You know what, old man? I’m feeling generous today. Return the gems before your ship sails, and I’ll let you keep your thumbs.” 

“M-messere, right away, messere. You’re far more merciful than—”

“The gems, Ivo. They sail at noon. And forget about your final payment.”

Arlath scurried off, robes flapping heavily behind him. Varric shoved his hands into his pockets and did some quick calculations. He knew what was owed him, and he was flush enough that even the many hundreds of royals on the ship in Jader wouldn’t make much difference in his day to day. It would make a considerable difference to Hawke, though. He rubbed his brow. He hadn’t seen her since their… disagreement, though he was certain she’d learned of the fate he’d engineered for Halford. Her silence told him all he wanted to know. He watched the longshoremen load his final crate onto the ship, and he felt a weight lift from his shoulders. The thaig was someone else’s problem now.

Someone else who would be arriving that day, if all had gone to plan. Anticipation jolted through him like lightning. He closed his eyes to feel it more keenly. At last, the response he’d expected. He filled his chest with a steadying breath and started the long walk back to his suite. He had one payment to collect and another to deliver, and neither was looking to be pleasant.

“The lady Hawke, erm, she’s… not in today, messere,” Bodahn said, nervous.

“You’re a good friend and a bad liar, Bodahn,” Varric said. “Tell her I have the last of her coin from the thaig. We can… dissolve our arrangement, once I’ve handed it to her.”

Bodahn wrung his hands a moment longer, but he did relent and show Varric into the study. The hearth was cold and the curtains were drawn, and neglect had settled on everything like a fine layer of dust. Hawke came down shortly after, mauve robe wrinkled and hair mussed. They regarded each other, wary and cool. Varric cleared his throat and held out the neatly folded vellum. She raised a brow. 

“It’s a promissory note. Your share in coin would have been too heavy to carry up all those steps.”

She took it and unfolded it carefully to read the sum. He saw the surprise, subtle though it was, before she went to lay it on her desk. She turned back to him.

“That’s it, then?” He could have chilled a cask of ale on her tone.

“If you want,” he said, biting back the wave of grief that crashed through him.

“I heard what you did to Halford. This wasn’t your fight.”

“The viscount thought otherwise.”

“Screw the viscount. No one’s heard from Teach in months. No one took over his class at the import shop. The kids have scattered. You cheated him, Varric. You cheated me.” 

Her words were hard, but they lacked any real venom. He clenched his teeth. She knew better than this, and her churlishness sparked his simmering ire.

“Think, Hawke! What would killing him have gotten Teach? Or you? Executed, if you were ever found out. Teach is his own problem, but you’d really do that to your mother?” She crossed her arms. Ah, weakness. He leaned into it hard. “Her last free child, hanged for capital murder or gutted by a fleet of pirates? Because they absolutely would have come for you. Halford wasn’t some two-bit thug from Lowtown. The rules of engagement are different.”

She scoffed. “So you were looking out for me? Do I owe you a favor now, for saving my neck?”

His shoulder sagged. He was exhausted. She was exhausting. “This one’s free. Listen. You get tired of knocking around this empty house or entertaining noble jackoffs, you know where to find me.”

She turned to leave and he felt a door slam within him. Bright desperation bloomed in his chest. This was wrong. This was _wrong._

“Hawke!” 

Her name caught in his throat. She stopped. He walked to face her, steps measured, heart hammering on his ribs. She wiped her cheeks. The light caught the damp there and made it shine. 

“I’m—” he swallowed, “huh.” He looked up into her eyes, nearly black in the low light. She sniffed. “You were right, to be angry about the bard. And the spies.” He looked away. “That’s just… that’s what I do. I know things. If I didn’t know things, I’d be dead.” He met her black eyes with a shrug. “I should have asked. I’m sorry.”

She huffed a soft laugh. “You absolute fool.” She stepped toward him with none of the animosity he’d nearly accepted as his new normal. She smiled even as the corner of her lips turned down. “Was that so hard?”

He reached for her unthinking as her arms circled his shoulders and drew him close. She pressed him to her breast, hard and soft in all the right places. He held her with all his trembling strength, his arms around her waist, his fingers tight at her back. She drew a shaky breath and dropped a kiss at the top of his head.

“I missed you,” she breathed.

He melted against her. “Let’s never do that again.”

“No promises,” she said with a soft chuckle.

He hummed and released her. She let go reluctantly. He held out his hand.

“Friends?”

She took it and smiled, though her eyes were dulled by a familiar ache. He hated to see it there, hated that he couldn’t be the one to make them sparkle again. He hoped there was a sun-drenched table reserved in the little café, that young noble waiting for her in his best blue and silver with a velvet box in his pocket. 

“Friends,” she agreed.

She walked him to the front door. He stopped before opening it and turned to her.

“I’ll send out some feelers for Teach,” he said. “Someone should let him know that Tiff didn’t die for nothing.”

She sighed. “Tell him the kids miss him. We’re losing too many to the gaol and the gutters.”

He cracked a grin up at her. “Why don’t you stand in? They respect you.”

“Lirene won’t let me stay more than a few minutes in her shop.” She grinned back. “Says I’m bad for business.”

“Well you’re always welcome in mine,” he said. “Grace on Thursday?”

She nodded. “I’ve been practicing with Mother. Better watch your coin, Varric.”

“I look forward to the thrashing, then,” he said with a smile.

She opened the door and he left with a wave over his shoulder. He wouldn’t know how Hawke crumpled to the ground behind him until the next day, as he read his Hightown report. She’d clutched her chest and sunk to her knees to watch him go, and when she let her head drop, bright tears caught the sun’s rays like diamonds as they fell. Bodahn helped her up. He put her hand on his shoulder and his arm around her waist, and she leaned into his strength and solidity that was so like Varric’s, but softer, gentler. Varric would crush the cheap parchment in his hands and lean his forehead against them, and he would— 

He was getting ahead of himself. 

He left Hawke’s home with a heart as light as he could make it to return to his suite and wait for sunset. She would be at the old place already, settling in with a bath and a hot meal after days on the road. He could see her lounging in the bronze tub, milky skin glowing through the steam, her dirty blonde hair piled atop her head in messy, half laced braids, blue eyes at half mast with pleasure. She’d have removed the heavy torc and set it in a drawer, and the dimples it left on her chest would smooth with the passage of time until they were two tiny spots of red, barely more than the freckles that blanketed her shoulders. 

Noise from the tavern swelled as the sunlight dimmed, and soon the benches were full. Varric rose stiffly, too many hours reading through the latest notes from yet another Guild meeting he’d declined to attend. His mind raced as he drew his duster on and buttoned it to his neck, as he buckled into his harness, as Bianca settled her solid weight against his back. He left the tavern on full alert. She’d sent a final letter swearing that her family thought she was traveling on to Ostwick and suspected nothing, but he didn’t trust it for a moment. Her family was far sharper than she ever gave them credit for.

Something scuffled just out of his peripheral, and he looked up. Bare rooftops stood out among the stars. He watched until an owl hopped clumsily upon a crumbling parapet to survey the corridors and blind alleys, and he continued on to the stables. He kept to the walls, a dust colored shadow as he slipped through the Lowtown streets. 

He reached the stables without incident and took his bay mare from a waiting groom with a fond pat on her shoulder. He’d bought her with some of the first coin from the thaig, and she was fat and sleek with his care. He flipped a silver to the groom, who turned and ran to fetch another horse for a new customer. He glanced at the figure, tall and feminine in black leather, a hood drawn up to conceal her face in shadow. A shiver ran through him, but his mind was overfull already. He dismissed her as another traveler, as separate from him as the moon. The mare wheeled about, her shoes sparking against the cobbled street, and his heart raced as the stone in his gut caught fire and burned, white hot at the promise ahead of him.

Varric dismounted at a canter, the little horse lathered and blowing hard. He flipped a sovereign to the groom and told him to treat her like a princess, for he certainly hadn’t. He ran to the door, dust puffing up behind him, cold air knifing into his lungs. It opened and the heavy scent of onions in butter coated his throat. He gulped it greedily, willing his growling stomach to find satisfaction in it. She waited. He would not keep her.

The proprietress raised a brow at him.

“Beryl,” he said, out of breath.

She tilted her head to the stairs. “Last room on the left.”

He slapped a sovereign on the counter. “Tap the ceiling if anyone goes up what doesn’t belong.”

She slid it below. “If they do, try not to get any blood on the linens.”

He took the stairs two at a time. The hall was dark and silent, because he’d taken every other room that night. Quiet humming threaded its way to him, an old Orlesian drinking song, young maids who preferred to dance with harts than with men. He unbuttoned his duster and rolled his shoulders, counting his breath in a useless attempt to quiet his nerves. He knocked in their old pattern, one-two, one-two-three, one.

“About time,” Bianca said, muffled.

He pushed the door open and swallowed his heart back down. She lounged on the bed, dressed in velvet robes blue as her eyes and embroidered in elegant golden scrolls that tumbled down the fabric like the locks of her loose hair. She held a folded set of drafting parchments, charcoal smudges on her freckled cheeks, one pale leg crossed over the other, painted toes that shone like little jewels. He unclipped her namesake and leaned her carefully near the door, and he smiled to see her frown.

“You shouldn’t rest her like that, Varric. You’re stressing the limbs.”

He undressed mechanically, his mind too full to process more than the need raging through him. Here— she was here she was _finally here._ He scrabbled for a clever comeback and came back empty. 

“She can take a little rough treatment. She’s tougher than she looks.”

Bianca shook her head with a smile. She set the drafts aside and rose to place the crossbow carefully on a small table before turning to help him, molten steel and jasmine in her hair, clever fingers sure on his buckles and laces. She ran her fingers over his chest, the tiny scars on her hands from errant cinders, the white of them pale even on her pale skin. He lifted them to his lips and kissed each one, naming their constellations.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” she asked, coquettish below her lashes.

He fell to one knee to gaze up at her, his throat closing on the words even as he would speak them. 

“I was cruel to you, my love. You bore my ill humor with grace, and you gifted me with mercy I didn’t deserve.” 

He kissed each finger and drew the last into his mouth when she pressed it on his lips. She tasted of parchment, drawing charcoal, and that butter yellow soap the innkeep stocked. She pressed in further and he rolled his tongue around her delicate finger, small but incredibly strong. Heat pooled in his groin as she pulled her hand away to untie his hair. Her fingers laced through it and he trembled, waiting. She tightened her hold on him and pulled his head back to claim his lips as she towered over him, fierce and hungry. He moaned against her mouth, his fingers twitching to hold her as his cock throbbed in his smalls.

“Mm,” she broke away to pull him to his feet. “I forgive you.”

She took his hand to lead him to the bed. Her robe fell away with a shrug and she was bared to him, broad shoulders, strong arms, hands that could twist filigree or break iron. She twitched her lips in a wry grin as he stared at her, as he committed everything to memory all over again. 

“Not going to write about this in your next book, are you?”

“Never. This is just for me.”

She darted forward and threw him onto the bed, quick and sure as she’d ever been. He shucked the last of his smalls with a huff, and hissed when she slid beside him to draw her hand up the inside of his thigh to rest just shy of its hinge. She leaned on the other arm, heavy breasts swaying, her eyes teasing and light. 

“Careful with the goods, you little minx. I’m not as flexible as I used to be.”

She grinned. “You have collected a few new scars, Spots. I might have to think up a new nickname.”

He measured his breath. “They’ll never outnumber the ink stains on my hands, because I will never stop spilling it for you.”

She leaned down to kiss him, her hand sliding up to caress his straining cock, her breasts pressing full against his chest. He freed his hand to grip her hips and she shifted to sit astride his, the slickness of her core pressing lightly on him. He trembled, aching with the instinct that drove him to that precious heat. She kissed him again, slow, precise, her nails dragging lightly down his neck. He shivered. 

_Hawke may know how to touch a man, but Bianca knew how to touch_ him.

The thought of Hawke broke him from his stupor, jarring and unwelcome. Bianca sat back, tracing her fingers lightly over his chest. She tilted her head, a question.

“Sorry,” he said, stroking the generous flare of her hips. “Stray thought, knocked me off course.”

She grinned, sly. “Well. I’ll just have to work harder to get that mind of yours to take a break.”

She slid up, coating him with her sex, and slid down to envelop him. She cried out at their joining, breathy, high and sweet. He groaned to press into her yielding flesh, hips curling even as his mind (curse it) compared Bianca’s cry to Hawke’s, and found it oddly empty. He shook his head and thrust into her again, willing his traitorous thoughts to focus on here, her, now.

Bianca felt his distance and redoubled her efforts, dragging nails down his chest to follow the red lines with her tongue, filling his ears with moans and promises, taking as much of him as she could, more, until he saw her clench her teeth against the pain. He stilled his hips.

“Stop,” he breathed. She ground against him with a grimace, a sheen of sweat on her chest. “Bianca.” She met his eyes. “Stop.”

She lifted from him, sulky and grateful, and his cock bounced stiffly against his belly. He rolled her, taking charge before she could protest, and began trailing kisses down her neck, down her collarbone, the milky, freckled skin smooth beneath his lips. He realized, as he swirled his tongue around a coral pink nipple, that his fingers were searching for scars. He palmed her breast and sucked hard and she gasped, curling into him. He released it with a wet _pop,_ so like ‘Bela’s flask that night he was back there himself, watching it press on Hawke’s perfect lips.

He squeezed his eyes shut and swept his hands down her waist, following his thumbs with his chin and peppering her belly with kisses until he reached her mound and its crown of curls. She smelled just like he remembered, musk and damp stone, a tang of iron. She combed her fingers through his hair, breathing a soft yes. He opened his eyes and wondered at the tawny curls. Why had he expected them to be black and shot through with auburn?

“Varric? You okay down there?”

He looked up. Bianca’s smile was stiff, her eyes wavering between confusion and hurt. He couldn’t do this. She was too clever by a league to fall for any misdirection he might devise. He sat up as his cock tipped down, fading. He gave her a sad smile. She sat up as well, folding her legs under her, her eyes cooling as she tucked her vulnerable places away.

“I can’t,” was all he could offer. It was all he could say without spilling everything. 

“Can’t, what? Can’t keep it up? Can’t turn your nug-humping mind off for one night?” She threw a pillow at him. “I didn’t come from _Orlais_ to wrestle your demons for you, Varric. If I wanted a limp dick, I’d have stayed home.”

He let the pillow hit him. This wasn’t him, but it wasn’t her, either. He let his gaze rest on her. She shifted under its growing weight. She looked away.

“What happened, Bianca?”

She huffed. “What do you care? Busy counting your gold and hoarding your secrets in that fish-stinking hole you call a city.”

“Hey. I think I’ve known you long enough to know when something’s wrong. What happened? Is it whatshisname? Is he—”

“He’s not _beating_ me, if that’s what you were about to ask.”

It was what he was about to ask. “What, then?”

“It’s private.”

He huffed. “Private. From me?”

She glared at him. “Yes, from you. You would be crushed by the weight of what you don’t know about me now. How long has it been? Three years? A lot can happen in three years.”

Didn’t he know it. “Bianca.”

She looked away, and she sighed. Her shoulders slumped and her fire guttered, and she whispered.

“Bianca…”

“Twins.” She sniffed. “I thought…” she looked up to the ceiling, then down at her hands. “I thought I could forget for a while, if I came here. I thought it would be like it always was, but…”

“But you can’t go home again.” She nodded. “How long ago…?”

“Two years. Bogdan was over the moon… he was in Nevarre when I started to bleed. He’d left a father, and he came back just another dwarf.”

“Was he—”

“He took care of everything. Threw himself into the smithy while I healed, sat by my side every night.” She shook her head, coughed a wracked laugh. “And this is how I repay him.”

Varric slid from the bed. He pulled his linens on and wrapped her in her velvet robe. She pulled it tight around her chest, fingers digging into the soft cloth. She leaned on him when he sat next to her. He put his arm around her shoulders and drew her closer. They sat there for a long time. He measured the length of her body against his, its warmth, its sturdy softness. It had been home, once. Now it felt cool, impersonal, a place he’d seen in a memory, or a drawing of someone else’s. 

Bianca was never one to stay still for long. Some time after their breathing had steadied and their bodies cooled, she went to tinker with her namesake. He watched from the bed, weighing their sorrows in his own way.

“Have you noticed your shots drifting left?”

“Yeah, actually. Figured it was just that imbalance you warned me about.”

“You’re still shooting her without a stand?” He shrugged, grinning. “Stubborn ass. You’ll need a cane before you’re fifty if you keep that up. Her cocking ring needs to be adjusted. You know how to do that?”

He didn’t. He went to stand beside her and watched her hands flit over the crossbow, a warmth in his chest as she worked. The other races could have their magic, their fire and ice and blood. His people had better magic, and it didn’t tempt demons or bend reality. She handed it to him when she was done, a bit sweaty and flush with pride. 

“She’ll shoot true for you now. Keep an eye on it, though. It’ll slip again; it’s just the way the tension works.”

He smiled at her. It felt like the first time he’d smiled in months. It was infectious, and she had no natural immunity against him. She smiled back. He set the crossbow on the table and gathered her into his arms. She brought hers around his waist, and they held each other. 

“Hey,” he said, muffled against her hair.

“Hey yourself,” she replied to his shoulder.

“Are you happy?” She stiffened. He shook his head. “I mean, aside from all this shit, and your…” he cleared his throat. “I mean, in the smithy, the fire white hot under the bellows, a pot of iron melting behind you, a strut or something glowing in your tongs as you wait for the perfect moment to strike… are you happy?”

She laughed softly. “Strut or something, he says.”

“I don’t know how you do what you do, m’lady, only that you’re the best who ever drew breath.”

She released him to look into his eyes. “Are you asking for me, or for yourself?”

He looked back into hers, clear as water, deep as the sky. Beryl, he’d called her, his precious jewel among the muck of Kirkwall. He shrugged. 

“For both of us, I guess. Remember what I said, that morning on the docks?”

“A life on the run is no life at all.” She shook her head. “Not even if you were running with me, Varric?”

He cupped her cheek. “No. I said a life on the run is no life for _you._ And then you threw the ring at me, because I was just another asshole telling you how to live. Sorry for that, by the way.” She smiled. “But Bianca, we couldn’t have built a smithy if we spent every other moment looking over our shoulders. You would never have changed the world with your beautiful machines, had we run. And sooner or later, I’d have run out of luck and made you a widow.” He dropped his hand. 

She shook her head. Her hair shifted softly on her shoulders, dark golden and shining.

“In the smithy, with the fire stoked high as it goes and a pot of silverite melting behind me, a strut or something in my tongs and the shout and clang of my apprentices ringing in my ears?” She paused.

He took her hands in his. He stroked them with his thumb, watching as the tiny scars pulled and compressed. He named their constellations; the Bridge, the Kite, the Swift. She bit her lip.

“It’s okay to say yes,” he said. He meant it.

“Yes. I am happy in the smithy, and at my drafting table. Bogdan tries, he does. And,” she swallowed, “while I swelled with new life I was incandescent, Varric. I was a dwarf with child, and nothing was impossible.” Tears welled in her eyes.

He crushed her to his chest. She broke down then, her wails muffled by his shoulder. He held her as she wrung their ancestral grief from her body, the curse of the Stone. He leaned his head on hers, willing a part of his strength to flow into her. He held her until she sighed.

“Shit,” she rasped.

He chuckled and released her, tucking the stray hairs behind her ear. He thought about saying that the chances of her conceiving at all were low to begin with, but now that she had, she probably could again. He considered telling her that the only reason she lost the babies at all was likely because they were twins. He wondered if he should say that of all the dwarves in all of Thedas, she was in the top bracket to have at least one child, but probably more.

He decided that silence was the greater part of wisdom.

“When do you leave for Ostwick?” he asked.

“Any time I choose. I have a swift carriage and an armed escort waiting for me with the stable boys.”

Varric huffed. “And here I thought I was being gallant buying out the rooms tonight.”

She punched him lightly. “That was you! Beards of the ancestors, Varric, you owe my head guardsman an apology.”

“Your head guardsman? Wouldn’t he get a fat bonus if he brought _my_ head back to Orlais on a pike?”

“That’s no reason to make him bunk with the animals. What are you, a farmer?”

He laughed. “Go on, save your dependents. You were always good at napping on the road.”

“It’s full night out there!”

“Counterpoint, it’s nearly morning. Besides, it’s not like the gangs retire to their lairs when the sun comes up. Make it to the next inn, get those three hundred leagues between us soon as you can.” His smile faded. “You still have your bow?” She tilted her head to a long canvas bag leaning in a corner. “You’ll be fine.”

She shook her head at him, but she did shrug out of the robe to pull her armor on. It was sleek and liquid black, and the color against her fine wool tunic jogged a memory. He rubbed his brow. The day had been a mess of where and how and whom. She packed her things away and turned to him, torc in place, satchel strapped across her body. He went to his duster to rummage in a pocket.

“Arlath finished up today,” he said, his tone light. 

“What did he take?” she asked with a grin.

“Actually,” he held up the goose egg opal. Her lips parted to see it again. “He tried to take this, and a few others.” 

He took her hand and pressed the gem into her palm. She held her fingers straight, unwilling to accept it in blind faith. He curled them around it with a soft touch.

“Varric…”

“I want you to have it,” he said. “No strings, no debts, no favors. Call it a family heirloom, pass it down the line. Just promise me,” he paused to look into her eyes, “promise me that when you look at it, you will know that you are loved, without strings, or debts, or favors.”

She nodded and embraced him with all her strength. He wrapped his arms around her, breathing in jasmine and iron. It sparked a different flame in him now, not raging and consuming but warm, sustaining. She released him and cocked her head, and he could see the gears whirling behind those blue eyes. He lifted a brow. She shook her head softly, smiled, and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

“Take care of yourself, Varric,” she said in the doorway. “I hope you find happiness too, aside from all this shit.” She grinned, the little minx, and slipped from view.

He locked the door, then stood before the hearth and stared into the flames. He was wrung out as he always was when she left, but a glimmer of something that refused to be doused flickered in him. He filled his chest with a breath, creaking his ribs and cracking his jaws in a yawn before he let it out. He glanced out the window. A thin grey line had appeared in the east while they’d been dancing around each other. He ran fingers through his hair and pushed up onto the bed. He had the rooms for a few more hours, may as well enjoy them. He was asleep before his head hit the pillow.

“Varric.”

He jerked awake, reaching for a dagger that wasn’t there. Someone laughed, the one who’d whispered his name right against his ear, intimate and invasive. She swam into view, black leather, a black hood, human from her build, tall and muscular.

“Hawke?”

“You’re a popular dwarf, my friend.” She sounded annoyed. What right did she have to be annoyed with him?

“What… what are you doing here? And why wasn’t I warned…”

“Um, assassin? No one saw me, and you’re damn lucky they didn’t.” She held up a hand and began counting on her fingers. “One assassin with a bow on top of the Hanged Man. A pair with daggers and poison in the bushes next to the stables. An ambush of four, four! I had to take them out with my knives. On horseback. We don’t train for that. Last but certainly not least, the one in your hallway who’d just clicked the lock on the wrong door as I came up the stairs.” Varric’s eyebrows disappeared into his hair. “He was good. Almost got the better of me, but well,” she brushed some dust off her shoulder, “I’ve had a lot of practice lately.”

He flopped back on the bed with a groan. Of course it had been too easy. But if she’d been watching his back since Lowtown… she grinned as realization dawned on his face.

“She’s pretty,” Hawke said with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

He closed his. “It’s complicated.”

“Young love, tragically separated before it could sour into resentment and regret, they pine for each other across continents and meet rarely, and only under cover of darkness.” He opened his eyes just to scowl at her. She shrugged. “She’s one of a kind. I wouldn’t want to let her go, either.”

“It’s… not like that,” he protested weakly.

Hawke scoffed. “I was here all night. It’s exactly like that. You just can’t see the bronto for the face full of asshole.” She cocked her head. “Huh. You go in for that? Most dwarves are pretty conservative, but you do make a habit of bucking tradition. Heh. Bucking.”

He hit her with a pillow. “Maker’s boiled ass, Hawke. Why are you even here?”

“Edwina was worried about you. Said she’d shooed some sketchy looking dwarves off while you were at my place.”

He sat up. “Edwina? Was worried about me?” He shook his head. “And she told _you?_”

“You should be more impressed that she scared two hardened assassins out of your suite. And of course she told me. Who do you think told me about your spies?”

Varric rubbed his brow. “You women will be the death of me,” he muttered.

“Maybe some day, but last night I told your death to bugger off.” She sat down next to him, her grin fading. “Is she really worth all this? If I hadn’t been there, if I’d been even a minute later, you would have died tonight.”

“Her family always sends assassins. They haven’t gotten me yet.”

She shook her head. “They’ve upgraded, then. I’ve seen you fight, Varric. The first two, maybe. The ambush, your little horse might have saved you. The last one?” She twisted her arm. An ugly gash in her armor revealed a bandage from elbow to shoulder. “One guy did that to me, and it was not luck. He would have murdered you in front of Bianca, then taken her back to Orlais and locked her in a gilded cage until she produced an heir, or died trying.”

“I’ve never—”

“Shut up.” He shut up. “You told me that the rules of engagement are different for different types of people. I’m telling you the same thing now. Think of Bianca.” Shit, she’d turned the tables on him. “Think of what it would do to her to see the one person who loves her for _herself,_ murdered by her own family. There’s a reason they saved the best for last.”

“It would have been two against one. Bianca is an incredible sh—”

“Is she better than me?” Hawke’s voice had gone quiet. He watched her, those green eyes that never missed an opening, her deadly grace, her inhuman quickness. “Varric. Is she better, than me.”

He shook his head. She rose and he saw the stiffness in her arm. She was injured, and it was his fault. Shit. She poured herself a glass of water while he measured the precise depth of the pit he’d dug for himself. And for Bianca. Hawke’s offhand comment about a gilded cage careened in his skull. They wouldn’t… surely not her family— well no, he could believe it of her family, but Bogdan had always seemed so… pliant. He shivered. Dwarves and heirs were always a nasty business.

“Your horse is fine, by the way,” Hawke said, interrupting his thoughts. “She was touch and go there for a bit, but the grooms took turns walking her, and I let them use my courser’s blanket for the night.”

“What?” That his horse might have died was the last thing on his mind.

“She’s game, but she’s small. You want to run like that, get a courser. They’re made for it.” Hawke grinned at him, popping nuts into her mouth and chewing noisily.

He scoffed. “And how are you such a font of equine wisdom now? Your betrothed take you horse hunting?”

She choked on a dried gooseberry. “Betrothed?” she squawked. She took a sip of water and coughed a bit more. “Better check in with your network when you get back to Kirkwall. I don’t have any serious _suitors,_ much less a betrothed.”

“The noble you were lunching with, I’ve seen you with him myself.” He was suddenly sick with worry over his poor horse.

She stared at him, mouth agape. “Edmar?” He shrugged. “Edmar, nice jacket, blue tunic, short blond hair?”

“That’s the one.” 

His poor horse. He’d have to buy her a month’s worth of pears when they were in season. Hawke slapped the table with a cackle, and he nearly jumped out of his skin. He threw another pillow at her. It bounced away as she clutched her belly, tears squeezing out of her eyes.

“What!” he shouted.

“Edmar! Maker have mercy, you thought—” she snorted, “you thought I was sweet on Edmar!”

He crossed his arms. “He seemed like the right type. Young, wealthy, classically handsome…”

“Edmar isn’t a noble, you ass.” Hawke wiped her eyes and settled enough to look at him. “He’s a shipwright’s apprentice from Wycome. Mother met him on her visit, and he agreed to work with us. I’ve contracted with him to build a catamaran for Isabela.”

The world shifted again. Void _take_ it, he’d never experienced more vertigo in his life. He slumped back onto the hard headboard and wished he hadn’t thrown both of his pillows at Hawke. 

“You said… you said you’d met someone.” He mimicked her voice. “He’s kind and generous, noble in all the right ways. The best man I’ve known.” He rolled his head to glare at her. “Was that all a lie?”

She sat down next to him. She took his hand in hers. She brought it to her lips. Understanding swelled in him, implacable as the tides. She might be a liar and a cheat, but she’d never lied to him. Not about this. He leaned forward to take her face into his hands. She smiled into them, all the way up to her sparkling green eyes. 

There was still a chasm between them. It was dark and full of terrors, and if he leaned too near it his gut twisted as though he might fall. She pulled his hands from her cheeks to press a kiss in each palm, and released him. He rested them on her thigh. The abyss that separated them narrowed, just a bit.

“You _are_ the best man I’ve ever known, you impossible dwarf.”

…

_Hawke,_

_I hope you’re somewhere warm today, somewhere the sun is shining and the winds are at your back. I hope Mace is standing at the bow with her jaws open and her drool streaming, and I hope very much that you are upwind. _

_Kirkwall is dragging itself slowly upright, last I heard. Well, it’s more accurate to say that Aveline is dragging it forcibly behind her, and the city has no choice but to follow her perfect posture as best it can with a broken back. _

_Mostly, I am writing to say that I miss you. I miss the sound of your coins clinking into my take, and I miss the smell of lilac in your hair, and I miss the slide of your skin on mine in our quiet hours, and I very much miss being able to stare openly at your ass as you walk up stairs ahead of me. Maker’s breath, but you have an incredible ass._

_Tell the Rivaini I say hello, and to stop stealing things she doesn’t need, unless they’re very pretty, or if their previous owner has leered at my wife’s ass. In the latter case, please slay the villain outright and take his stuff. Oh but we’re not married, Varric, I hear you say. To which I reply no, but does the ass-leering villain know this? Of course he doesn’t._

_We will be, though. Married, that is, not ass-leering villains. I swear, Hawke, the moment, the very moment this old world stops trying to tear itself apart, I will draw up the documents, and I will fill your estate with friends, flowers, and feasts, and I will lay my life at your feet, and I will wed you, and when we kiss I will be happy enough—_

Boots sounded in the hall. Varric thrust the thin parchment into the hearth . The edges caught and curled as the boots grew louder, and he willed it to burn faster. He could hear the clank of her plates and the fire ate a hole into the middle of the parchment. He cursed his shaking hands. He’d not slept at all that night. The Seeker stopped outside his door and he released his letter to the flames. It drifted softly, falling to blackened pieces among the charred logs. He leaned back into his chair and schooled his breathing down to a reasonable pace just as she banged on the door.

“It’s open,” he called.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of Act I
> 
> This title and some of the words are taken from I'm Not Calling You a Liar by Florence + the Machine, and arranged for Varric's theme by Inon Zur for the DA2 soundtrack. Listen to this and try not to cry. Go on. I'll be here with tissues and a shoulder.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Aj1Li6QaWIc
> 
> This thing ballooned past all reasonable expectation, so I'm breaking it up by the acts in the game. Which means I need to figure out what to call the series. Merp.


End file.
